You Saw Me
by blondie1010
Summary: Little glimpses into the important "first moments" of Molly and Sherlock's ever evolving relationship with one another. Story takes place after the events of TRF. *Originally a one-shot*
1. You Saw Me

**Author's Note: **_So I've just finished series 2 of Sherlock, and after seeing those two lovely scenes between Sherlock and Molly, I just had to write this little fic. I find Molly's affection for Sherlock very touching, so I wanted to write this short story as a tribute to that. (Sidenote: I'm not even going to attempt to describe how Molly helped Sherlock fake his death. So that plot point is vaguely glossed over since I have no shot in hell of doing that explanation justice. That I'll leave to the wonderful writers of the show to detail in series 3:) I've only planned this as a one-shot, but maybe in the future after I have finished my other fic for Game of Thrones, I will decide to expand it to a full-length story. Enjoy!_

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Why is it that our brains never serve in our best interests? Though we tell ourselves that we should change our way of thinking in the interest of self-preservation and our own sanity, our brain decides to send signals to our subconscious that cause us to lose the argument with ourselves, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Instead of supplying information that will support the decision to change our ways, our rebellious brains remind us of those _few_ instances that undermine our very sound reasons for making this necessary change in our lives. Then before we know it, we have been talked out of making the sensible decision and continue down the same self-destructive path that caused us all this misery in the first place.

My brain was one such traitorous being. It simply would not allow me to fall out of love with Sherlock Holmes. Despite the overwhelming amount of heartless, insensitive remarks in regard to my lacking conversation and less-than-satisfactory appearance, my mind persisted in reminding me of the handful of kind acts and the rare appearances of humanity and decency that had been directed towards me on occasion. Every time I vowed to stop longing for a man who clearly had no regard for me whatsoever, whether personally or romantically, the cherished memory of a gentle, Christmas kiss would flash through my head, swiftly undermining my determination. Clearly, my weak-mindedness was entirely to blame for my acute misery. For that's what loving Sherlock Holmes was. Absolute misery.

It was Christmas again, but instead of attending Mrs. Hudson's Christmas get-together, as I had foolishly decided in favor of the previous year, I had opted to stay late in the lab and catch up on some work that I had recently fallen behind in. I was infinitely safer here with the microscopes and sterile test tubes than the warm, cozy flats of 221B Baker Street. Better to spend my holiday with the silent tools of science than endure the pitying looks of Sherlock's friends and acquaintances. Better to enjoy the company of the lifeless corpses in the morgue than the man who was the sole source of all my joy and sorrow.

Since his miraculous resurrection from the grave, Sherlock was a more notorious figure in the public eye than ever before. I took some small amount of pride in the fact that I had played a rather key role in helping him carry off the elaborate deception, even if the public had no knowledge of my involvement. Sherlock knew, and that was enough for me. Chiding myself over the sentimentality of that thought, I tried to discipline my wandering thoughts back to the task at hand rather than on the illustrious Sherlock Holmes.

As I squinted through the eyepiece of my microscope to study a sample of bacteria, I felt those unbidden memories arise in my mind once again, just as they always did when I tried to push Sherlock from my thoughts. _You do count_ his voice echoed in my mind, distracting me from the work at hand. _You've always counted, and I've always trusted you._

I saw the molecules of bacteria suddenly blur together as my eyes misted involuntarily at the memory of his words. I remembered how I had been so close then to the point of convincing myself that I could finally move past my pathetic infatuation when he had turned down my offer to help him, to give him whatever it was he needed. But the great Sherlock never needed anything from me. I didn't count.

_You do count_ his voice insisted once again in my head. _I need you, Molly. There's no one else I can turn to._

I pushed away the microscope then, acknowledging defeat. I clearly wouldn't be getting any work done tonight. With a weary sigh I rested my throbbing head in my cold hands as I allowed the memory to fully wash over me. It had been the single most thrilling moment of my life when the great Sherlock Holmes had admitted that he needed me. _Me._ Little, insignificant Molly Hooper. I remembered how important I had felt in that one moment. The way he looked at me. As if I was the only thing in the entire universe standing between him and the fate of certain death. Of course, I had readily agreed to help him. I would have done anything for him.

I gave a deep, dejected sigh at the thought. _I would do anything for him._ Naturally he had been grateful for my help. He had even given me another of those treasured kisses on my pale cheek before I left him that day. Since then he had been more polite to me. Not quite as cuttingly precise and cold in his verbal assessments of my shortcomings. But I knew nothing had truly changed. I would always be the girl pining for the one man I could never have. Sherlock Holmes wasn't capable of returning my feelings.

Deep down I knew the truth that he could never love me, but some small part of myself wouldn't allow me to give up hope that someday… I shook my head again breaking off the ridiculous thought before it could form. Things weren't going to change. Maybe it was just time I accepted that. With this resolve in place, I took a deep breath before reaching for the microscope once again. Just as my fingers brushed the cool metal, they drew back in startled surprise at the sound of an unexpected voice. _His _voice.

"I thought I might find you here, Molly."

Thinking for a moment that perhaps I had conjured a vision of him up by sheer willpower, I hesitantly turned my head in the direction of his voice. There he stood in the doorway, looking the same as always, with his coat still buttoned and his scarf wrapped tightly around his slender neck to keep out the winter chill. His hair looked a bit wind-swept from the outdoors and his cheeks had more color than usual due to the frigid temperatures. He looked just as handsome as always, and it made my heart hurt just to look at him. Forcing my eyes away from his arresting features, I reached back towards my dejected microscope before addressing him.

"Did you need something, Sherlock? Perhaps some body in the morgue you need a better look at?"

There was a beat of silence after my question, as if he was intently pondering a reply. That surprised me more than his unexpected appearance. I was intrigued enough by his silence to turn my attention away from my bacteria sample once again. Sherlock never gave any thought to what he said. The words simply flowed from his brain through his mouth without any consideration of the consequences. That was one of the fundamental differences between us. I could never seem to master the art of saying what I thought. The words always got caught in a jumble between my brain and mouth, falling out in a haphazard fashion. Sherlock had always been right about that. I was a dreadful conversationalist.

As I looked back at him, I noticed a queer look in those pale blue eyes. He stared at me rather intently for a few moments more in the deafening silence. It always unnerved me when he did that, because I knew he was finding all my little flaws and defects. The small things no one else could see. And he always made certain to verbalize whatever shortcomings he had found.

This time, however, something was different about that look. He wasn't studying me like a laboratory sample this time. He was looking at me like I really mattered. Like I counted. He had only ever looked at me like that once before, and it caused an irrational flutter of hope to spark in my bleak heart once again. Just as it had all those months ago. With an internal sigh, I acknowledged to myself that I was just as hopelessly infatuated with this man as ever before.

Keeping my attention focused on the silent figure before me, I saw him tear his eyes away from mine for a moment before looking down to retrieve something from his coat pocket. As he withdrew his hand, I saw a small, red box resting in his long fingers. I found myself squinting a bit to get a better look at the small package, and I noticed a tiny gold bow resting on top of the delicate, cherry-colored wrapping. My eyes widened in surprise before they rose once again to meet his. My surprise only increased further at the rather sheepish look lurking in the brilliant blue depths of his eyes. Sherlock Holmes had sported many looks over the years: distaste, arrogance, boredom, impatience. The list went on and on. Sheepish had never had a place on that list until now.

A million questions knocked on the door of my brain begging to get out, but for once I kept them firmly locked away. I wouldn't let myself make of muck of things this time, much safer to let him do all the talking. He was so much better at it anyway. So clamping my lips tightly together, I sat in the stillness and waited for him to offer an explanation for the unexpected visit.

Finally, when he saw I intended to say nothing to ease his obvious discomfort, he opened his mouth to speak. "It's bad form to not make an appearance at a party you're expected to attend."

"I told Mrs. Hudson I thought it would be best to skip the party this year," I offered with a small shrug. "It didn't turn out too well last time if you remember."

He had the good grace to look a bit ashamed at that reminder. He had behaved dreadfully towards me last year, so I felt little guilt in reminding him of his behavior. Looking away from me once again, Sherlock glanced back for a moment at the small box in his hand. He seemed to contemplate the object for a few moments of intense study before suddenly approaching me at a brisk pace, extending the box towards me like a talisman meant to ward off the devil. Without thinking, my hand rose to accept the offering before he quickly retreated.

"A present?" I murmured as I stared at the little box in a dazed state. "I thought you said once that presents were sentimental trifles."

"I still think they're sentimental trifles," he clarified his stance on the subject. "But you're the sentimental sort, so it seemed fitting."

I glanced up at him then to see he had returned to his usual detached demeanor. Obviously ridding himself of the offending object that now rested in my hand had helped to ease his distress. "But why would you buy me a present?" I pressed him. "I didn't expect you to get me anything. You never have before."

It was his turn to shrug. "I didn't know before."

"You didn't know I liked sentimental trifles?" I asked, confused.

That impatient look was starting to grow on his face now. The same look he sported every time my brain failed in the never-ending marathon of keeping up with his thought process. "I didn't know that you could really see," he explained, punctuating each syllable as if talking to a small child.

My helpless confusion only grew with his vague explanation. See what things? I was a scientist, of course I saw things. I was trained to see them. "What did I see, Sherlock?" I finally asked him with a faint trace of exasperation.

At my question, his eyes regained that intense look once again, and he took a few hesitant steps in my direction. My anticipation rose with each step nearer, until he was close enough for his feet to almost touch the legs of my laboratory stool that rested on the floor. My breathing grew shallow and halting, as his slender hand gradually rose to touch my cheek. It wasn't romantic exactly, but it wasn't a detached observation either.

It was as if he was rediscovering me. It was the most glorious feeling I had ever experienced, and it took every fiber of my self-control not to reach up and cradle the hand that traced the cool skin of my cheek. I sat without moving a muscle and simply enjoyed the rare opportunity of having his concentration focused solely on me, instead of the dead corpses which so often held the attention I wished for. I tried not to think to myself of how pathetic I sounded, competing with the deceased for a man's interest.

Continuing to trace the tips of his fingers over the delicate skin of my face, his lips began to move once again as he spoke. "You saw _me_," he admitted in a half-whisper, almost as if afraid someone else might overhear his confession. "Not many people do that. They see what they want to. Lies are easier to believe if you want them to be true, but you saw the truth because you really saw me."

I almost looked away from the intensity in his gaze, but I forced my eyes to stay locked with his. "I've always seen you," I admitted softly. "You just never took the time to notice."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips in the face of my confession. "I've noticed now." With those few soft-spoken words, he leaned down to brush his lips softly across my cheek where his fingers rested moments ago. "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," he murmured in my ear before disappearing as swiftly as he had come.

Following his departure, I was alone in the laboratory once again, the only evidence of his visit resting in the palm of my hand. I lifted my free hand to raise the lid on the box, finding a piece of paper folded neatly inside. Underneath the note lay a delicate chain that sparkled underneath the florescent lights overhead. Laying the note aside for the moment, I lifted Sherlock's gift from the box to study it more closely. Dangling from the small chain was a silver charm in the shape of a tiny magnifying glass.

A delighted smile began to grow on my face as I quickly fastened the bracelet about my wrist. Letting out a giggle of school-girlish delight, I tapped the little charm with my forefinger and watched it swing back-and-forth in the air, twinkling cheerfully in the bright light. Instantly, I recalled the note that had been set aside and reached quickly to retrieve it from the counter beside me. Slowly, I unfolded the note and greedily read the words written in Sherlock's bold scrawl.

_For the woman who saw the man beneath the silly hat._

_ -Sherlock_

I reread the words many times before finally refolding the note and hugging it close to my heart. _Damn it, _I thought to myself a rueful smile. There was no getting out of it now. I would be stuck in love with Sherlock Holmes for the rest of my days. However, the future seemed not quite as bleak now as it had mere minutes before. For Sherlock Holmes had finally seen me too.

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_Thank you for checking out my little story! I hope you all liked it! If this little one-shot gets enough interest I might consider making it into my next full length story. Again, thank you so much for reading!_


	2. First Kiss

**Author's Note: **_So due to all the kind reviews and requests for me to expand this one shot (and my love of Sherlock), I've decided to go ahead and write more of this story. I'm not going to do a plot-based fic since I'm doing one of those already, and that takes a lot of time to write and plan out. Instead, I've decided to write a series of connected ficlets that give us snapshot glimpses into the important moments of Sherlock and Molly's ever evolving relationship with one another. Basically, it's my take on the important "firsts" in their lives together. The original one shot will serve as the prologue. I'll be keeping the stories in Molly's fist person POV as I did with the opening chapter. I hope you all enjoy it!_

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For a holiday that is advertised every year as "delightful" and "romantic", I had always found Valentine's Day to be rather depressing. Perhaps it was my perpetually single state. What man wants to date a morgue attendant, after all? Mine was hardly the most glamorous of professions, and it certainly didn't make for entertaining dinner conversation.

I could hardly think of my last date without grimacing. After ten minutes of my babbling on about studying the onset of rigamortis to a fresh corpse, my date promptly imbibed half a bottle of Cristal before muttering some excuse about needing fresh air. The next thing I knew, I was sitting alone in the middle of a crowded restaurant, awaiting a date who never came back. He didn't even have the decency to pay for the expensive champagne he gulped down in his hurry to get away from me. Suffice to say, I hadn't chanced a date since. They always ended the same way. In disappointment.

So instead of a fancy restaurant, I found myself in the lab once again. Hardly a romantic setting, but one that was much less prone to leave me in an embarrassed state at the end of the night. Besides, the only man I wanted to spend the evening with already sat a few feet away, silently studying a jar of kidneys. He hadn't really explained why he needed the jar of kidneys when he joined me in the lab an hour before, but with Sherlock, it was usually best not to ask. After a few moments of arguing with him why I couldn't do as he asked, as the kidneys weren't intended for his bizarre experiments, I gave in like always and left him to his work.

Occasionally, I would peek up at him over the screen of my computer as I worked in silence, but I hadn't caught sight of his eyes glancing in my direction. The attention I longed for was focused entirely on the dead organs before him. After peeking at him once again only to be disappointed, I let a dejected sigh escape my pursed lips, making a soft buzzing sound in the quiet space. He did look up at me then.

Sherlock quirked one of those perfect brows at me in a manner that indicated he did not appreciate the interruption to his work. "Something the matter, Miss Hooper?" From his use of my surname, I could deduce that he was not in a mood to converse.

Reluctant to admit the real reason for my disappointed expression, I quickly blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Where is Dr. Watson?"

His quirked brows rose even further at the unexpected question. "I wasn't aware you were so interested in Watson's personal life."

Though he had apparently come to the wrong conclusion regarding my inquiry after his friend, my face heated nonetheless at his pointed remark. "I'm not," I hastened to clarify with a downcast gaze.

"Then why do you want to know his whereabouts?" Sherlock returned in a skeptical tone.

I glanced back up then, feeling the heat finally fade from my cheeks. "He's usually with you when you come here" I offered with a little shrug. "I just wondered why you might be alone."

Sherlock seemed to accept that explanation before finally answering the question that had prompted the awkward exchange. "Watson has chosen to follow the mandate of society that a man must choose this particular day to romance the nearest available female. He's out eating an expensive dinner with the chosen woman now, I suppose. Though, it will all mostly likely prove to be a wasted effort on his part."

I had been prepared to let the subject drop after Sherlock replied in order to let him return to the peaceful quiet he craved for his work, but some part of me couldn't let such cynicism towards romance go unchallenged. Never mind the fact that I had been mentally abusing the unwelcome holiday myself mere moments ago, but I felt as if someone should defend the romance of the occasion, even if that person happened to be me.

The words slipped out of my mouth before my lips even knew what they were saying. "I don't think there's anything wrong with celebrating Valentine's Day."

The blue gaze that had returned to glare at the jar of organs instantly snapped back to mine with a determined glint. It wasn't until I saw that look that I realized my mistake. In my haste to defend the romantic principles of the day, I had forgotten one very important thing, Sherlock's tendency to verbally rip to shreds any person who was stupid enough to disagree with him.

Disregarding the unfinished work before him, Sherlock started in my direction with a purposeful stride, never speaking but keeping that intense sapphire gaze pinned to mine. Unconsciously, I began to edge a few steps away in self defense until an inconveniently placed work station halted my progress.

Helpless to escape, I simply stood there like a simpleton, waiting for Sherlock's verbal set down. After what seemed an eternity of endless waiting, he finally stopped a few feet short of where I stood, a speculative gleam tempering the intensity of his gaze.

"If you think the holiday such a welcome celebration of romance, Miss Hooper, might I inquire why you are here instead of having a dinner of your own with some unsuspecting member of the male sex?"

I tried to think of some response to spare myself the embarrassment of confessing my sad, dateless state, but when I opened my mouth to spout an excuse, I was horrified to hear my voice admitting the truth instead. "I don't do very well with dates."

After my confession, I winced a bit in preparation for the imminent verbal blow that was sure to follow. To my surprise, it never came. Instead, Sherlock's look became more patronizing than challenging, and I wasn't too certain that I welcomed the change. Before I could follow up my previous statement, Sherlock deep baritone broke the charged silence.

"Don't take it too hard, Molly" he assured me with a small shrug of acceptance. "Some people aren't meant for love." I imagined I saw him give a slight shudder at the last word, but I couldn't be certain. Before I could dwell too much on the thought, he continued with his advice. "Focus on science instead. It's much more rewarding than relations with the opposite sex, much more reliable. That's what I intend to do."

After bestowing this sage advice, he pivoted on his heel to return to his forgotten kidneys but halted abruptly once more when my brain failed in disciplining my mouth to keep from disagreeing his opinion. "Everybody can love someone."

That dark head of curls slowly turned to reveal a slightly irritated expression. "On what experiences do you base this unfounded opinion?" he asked in a slow, deliberate cadence that indicated his intention to undermine any rebuttal I might offer to strengthen my argument.

"You almost died to save your friends from Moriarty," I offered in a voice that barely surpassed a whisper. I noticed him lean forward slightly to catch my following words. "Some might call that love."

"Hardly a romantic love though," he answered, using that condescending tone I so often heard creep into his voice. "I'm not a man affected by…" he trailed off for a moment as if searching for the best word to describe his thoughts. "Lust," he finally finished with a decided nod of his head. "Sex is a messy business. Something I'm simply not interested in."

I knew I should concede the argument to him at this point. All I needed do was admit my mistake and we would both return to our work and it would be as if nothing happened. But I simply couldn't stop myself from speaking the next two words. "Kiss me."

I wasn't certain whose face sported the more horrified expression at my unexpected challenge, mine or Sherlock's. It was on the tip of my tongue to immediately take back the words, but something caused me to hold back. Perhaps it was the curiosity to see how he would respond to the challenge. If there was one thing Sherlock Holmes could never resist, it was a challenge.

Gradually, the shocked horror on his face faded to mere curiosity before he was able to form a response. "Why?"

"You say you're immune to the more basic human instincts, so I want to make a wager," I replied in an even tone despite the erratic flutter of my heart pounding against my ribs. I never did things like this, but I had issued the challenge. I couldn't back down now. It would be too humiliating. Taking a small breath to help calm my nerves, I continued on. "If you kiss me and feel nothing, you win. If you _do_ feel something, then I win."

His brows lowered as he contemplated my offer. "When you place a bet, Miss Hooper, you are expected to have something to bet with. What could I want from you to make the gamble worth my while?"

"The satisfaction of being right?" I asked doubtfully. His gaze narrowed even further in disagreement, so I racked my brain for something else. "If you're right, then I'll grant you ten favors. You can ask for anything, and I'll help you with it, no arguments."

That answer must have been acceptable enough because he rewarded the suggestion with a quick nod. "What if you win the wager?"

My mind was too preoccupied with the possibility of him kissing me, so I couldn't formulate a suitable reply in the moment. "You'll think of something," I quickly waved off the concern.

"Well as I expect to win, it hardly matters," he answered smugly before taking a few moments longer to consider the wager. It seemed an eternity as I waited for his reply, but in reality, only a few seconds passed before he finally gave his decision.

"Very well," he answered quickly "I'll do it."

Before I knew what was happening, he had abruptly closed the space between us, though he didn't touch me at first. He simply stood there, toe to toe with me, the tip of my nose almost brushing the soft fabric of his cotton shirt. Tilting my head up to gauge his expression, I saw a spark of insecurity lurking there. Feeling instantly contrite at forcing him into a situation he was clearly uncomfortable with, I opened my mouth to call off the bet, no matter how it might pain me to say the words.

"Sherlock," I began, placing my hand on his chest in a comforting gesture. "You don't have to – "

The rest of the thought would forever go unspoken as his head instantly lowered, and I felt a warm pair of lips settle comfortably over mine. My eyes widened in surprise at first from the suddenness of his kiss, but as my mind slowly processed whose mouth was currently pressed to my mine, my lids lowered slowly as I savored the moment. Without even thinking, I moved my hands to the lapels of his jacket to pull him more firmly into the embrace. I felt him stiffen a bit then, but as I tilted my head to deepen the kiss, I imagined I could feel a pair of slender hands hesitantly settle on my waist, pressing our bodies more closely together.

I didn't try to open my mouth to him. I wasn't brazen enough to do that, but it was a soul-stirring kiss all the same. His lips felt like smooth, pressed velvet on mine, and his breath that smelled faintly of cigars wafted gently over me, lulling me even further under the spell of the moment. My head was spinning, and I couldn't have formed a logical thought to save the world. It was the most blissful, perfect moment of my life, and I wished I could have stayed in his arms forever. Alas, forever was not to be.

He was the first to pull away. His hands dropped from my waist, and my hands holding their firm grip on his jacket quickly followed suit. I was almost too afraid to look up at his face to see his reaction to our kiss. It had been the most wonderful moment of my life, and to hear him brush it off as meaningless might crush me. Braving the disappointment, I chanced a look in his direction only to be met by the sight of his retreating back.

Dumbfounded, I could only stare in shock as he hastily gathered his things, shoving his arms into the empty sleeves of his coat before making an even hastier retreat towards the exit of the lab. "A pleasant evening, Miss Hooper." I heard him toss the words over his shoulder at me in a bare acknowledgement of farewell before he was gone.

I felt my face burn with shame and my eyes mist with unshed tears at the curt dismissal. Perhaps I had been wrong to come here tonight. Maybe I would have been safer in the fancy restaurant after all.

* * *

The next morning I trudged into the lab with a labored stride, my eyes red and bleary from lack of sleep. After the incident with Sherlock last evening, I'd barely been able to catch a wink of sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I replayed the kiss over and over in my mind. I simply didn't understand how I could have been the only one affected by something so profound and moving. How could he have not felt it too? I had tortured myself with that very question into the latest hours of the night until I finally lost the battle to exhaustion.

It had been with great reluctance that I arose the next morning before dressing to come into work, the possibility that I might run into Sherlock hanging over me like a dark cloud. After last night, I wasn't sure I could face him without wishing the earth to swallow me whole. Thankfully, I had seen no sign of him as I approached the lab. Taking a quick peek through the glass doors, I found the cold, sterile space blessedly empty. Releasing a breath I hadn't realized I had been holding, I pushed the doors open and entered the scene of my crime.

As I approached my work station, I caught sight of a small, black box sitting all alone next to my equipment, seeming sorely out of place in the stark white surroundings. Immediately curious, I reached towards the mysterious package and cautiously opened the lid to see what was inside. As the lid snapped back on its hinges, a folded note fell from the box onto the table revealing a small charm beneath. The little charm was ruby red, in the shape of a small dice. Even more confused than before, I reached for the fallen note in search of some form of explanation. As I unfolded the creased paper, I was surprised to find Sherlock's handwriting staring back at me. Raising the paper closer to my astonished gaze, I slowly took in the words.

_A gamble well played_

_-Sherlock_

I had to reread the brief note a few times before the meaning finally sunk in. Once it did, I let out a loud laugh of relief. To any passerby, I probably appeared to be a mad woman, clutching the small note and twirling about in a circle as I laughed like a loon, but I didn't care. It had meant something to him too, our kiss. It truly _had_ been the most perfect moment of my life, and I had never felt so sublimely happy.

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_Thanks so much for reading! Any comments are much appreciated!_


	3. First Date

**Author's Note:** _Thank you so much for the kind reviews! It's nice to know my little stories are read and appreciated:) Just for some background info on this fic, it takes place about a year after the last one. No more kisses have been exchanged, but Molly and Sherlock have formed a more solid friendship with one another. Of course, a solid friendship can always serve as the start to a beautiful relationship. That's what the ever optimistic Molly Hopper thinks anyway._

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Finished at last! I gave a triumphant smile as I put away the rest of the files I had been handed that morning. It had taken me nine hours to get it all sorted, but I had finally finished the tedious assignment. Still sporting my gleeful smile of success, I began to gather my things while imagining the relaxing bath that awaited my aching joints back in my cozy flat.

Just then, my peaceful solitude was rudely interrupted by the sound of the lab door being flung back on its hinges as it banged into the solid, plaster wall. "Molly!" Sherlock called out brusquely as he passed through the now open doorway. "I need you with me now. Get your things. The longer I leave the crime scene unattended the longer the police have to muck things up."

I stared at him a bit stupidly for a moment as I tried to grasp the meaning of his words. "What?" was the only question my brain could form in the face of his sudden appearance.

Sherlock had turned to look at some samples of bacteria on the counter after giving his order for me to accompany him, but his piercing, blue gaze snapped immediately to attention once again at the sound of my confusion. "At the crime scene," he repeated once more in a clipped voice that testified to his impatience.

I was still left baffled by that less-than-adequate explanation. "But why would you need me at one of your murder scenes?" I questioned him, my eyebrows drawn together in confusion. "Where's John?"

"Watson is currently off in the country with that woman, so I'm on my own," he explained with an impatient wave of his hand. It was on the tip of my tongue to remind Sherlock that John's girlfriend was named Mary (they had been dating for almost six months, after all), but I held the impulse in check in order to let him finish. "I've become so used to having him there," Sherlock continued on, heedless of my train of thought. "I can't think through things properly without having someone to tell my findings to, and I can't bring my skull along, so it will have to be you instead."

I wasn't certain whether to be flattered or insulted that Sherlock thought my company superior to that of a skull. For the sake of my sanity, I chose the former. "Can't you just talk to Lestrade or one of those detectives he always has around?" I questioned, hopeful I might be able to talk him out of dragging me along, even though I knew it was pointless to try to talk Sherlock out of something once his mind had been made up.

"That's not going to work," Sherlock quickly brushed aside the suggestion. "I need an empty mind. One that is able to see things through new eyes. The detectives always jump to conclusions about what they see; conclusions which more than often prove to be wrong."

I did Sherlock the service of assuming he hadn't meant to insult me with the remark about an empty mind. "And what do I get out of this if I help you, Sherlock?" I asked him with an exasperated sigh. By this point, I knew I would be accompanying him whether I liked it or not, but I wanted some type of compensation for the inconvenience. I had been giving the man free favors for far too long.

"Get out of it?" Sherlock repeated the question with a narrowed gaze, as if he couldn't quite believe I hadn't readily complied with his request as I so often did.

"You heard me," I told him, my mouth hardened into a firm line to show him I meant what I said. My exhaustion was making me a bit more irritable than normal. "What will you do to repay me for giving up my nice evening at home to traipse after you to one of your crime scenes?"

Sherlock's gaze left mine for a moment to stare at some imaginary spot on the floor as he contemplated the request. "What would you like me to do?" he asked once his gaze had returned to mine.

It was my turn to ponder things for a moment before I thought of a brilliant notion. "Take me to dinner," I gave him my offer, the triumphant grin from earlier making a sudden reappearance.

"Might I surmise from that request that you are asking me to take you out on a date?" he questioned with a suspicious gaze.

Thanks to my weary state, I didn't have time to think about the words as they left my mouth. Otherwise, I might never have been brave enough to say them. "Yes, I am."

Sherlock thought about my offer for a moment before a smile of admiration lifted the corners of his mouth. "Very good, Molly." I felt my smile widen a bit at the unexpected compliment, until he finished his thought. "I most likely would never have wanted to ask you myself. Shall we be off then?"

He turned his back on me at that moment in preparation to leave, so he didn't catch sight of my smile fading away rather abruptly. I resisted the urge to shout an unladylike expletive at his retreating back, but it was rather difficult. Why did he always have to go and ruin things by speaking?

* * *

I pulled my coat tightly around my shivering body as I waited for Sherlock to finish inspecting the body that was currently sprawled across the wet cement in a mangled position. He was saying something about dampness and stains, but I only half heard him over the noisy chattering of my teeth. However, he seemed not to notice my distracted state. As long as I nodded my head in an understanding fashion when he glanced at me, he was satisfied enough to continue speaking.

It was with great relief when I heard him tell Lestrade that he was finished with the scene. I recalled hearing him say something about the number six which was rather confusing, but as long as it meant we could leave, I didn't intend to question my good fortune. He told me to wait for him by the patrol cars as he finished speaking with the detective, and I did not hesitate in complying with the request. The sooner I was able to get out of this cold damp, the better.

As I leaned against the metal door of the police vehicle, trying to shut out the winter chill with the warm wool of my coat, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the warm, steaming bath that awaited me at home. A small smile kicked up the corner of my mouth as I fantasized about the welcoming warmth, but my pleasant mood was instantly diffused by the sound of a strident voice.

"The freak's found another one to follow him around then?"

My closed lids instantly popped open to find one of Lestrade's detectives standing by my side. She must have approached me when I was lost in my pleasant daydream. She had dark skin and even darker curly hair, and she might have been pretty, if she hadn't looked so unpleasant.

"I'm Molly Hooper," I offered with a kind smile, opting to return politeness in exchange for her rude behavior.

She looked me over with a critical gaze before returning my greeting with one of her own. "Sergeant Sally Donovan," she identified herself with a quick nod of her head. "What's the freak to you? You're not his girlfriend, surely."

I bristled a bit at her last comment, but chose to retain a pleasant expression, though I could feel the corners of my mouth tighten in annoyance. "I work at St. Bart's Hospital," I answered her question, trying to keep an even tone. "Sherlock comes to me for help sometimes, and I give it to him. That's all."

"You'd do well to keep it at that," she told me with a hard look. "The freak isn't meant to have friends, especially not girlfriends."

That did it. I was through being polite. "What do you know about it?" I demanded of her, my smile instantly morphing into an unpleasant frown. "Do you really know him? Anything about him? If you did, you'd know he cares about people close to him. He risked his life to save them, and I'd say that's probably more than you've ever done for friends of yours."

"Molly," Sherlock's deep voice broke through the haze of fury surrounding my brain, drawing my attention away from the woman beside me. "I see you've been getting to know Sergeant Donovan."

"We were just getting to know one another," Sally told him quickly before turning to leave. "She likes you, freak."

After throwing these last few words over her shoulder, the sergeant returned to her fellow detectives that were currently milling around the crime scene. Taking a deep breath to calm my raging emotions, I glanced back at Sherlock to find him looking at me with a strange expression.

We stared at each other for a few moments of silence before he finally broke it. "She doesn't particularly care for me. Most people tend to resent a superior intellect."

I gave a short laugh at his explanation, and he returned my amused smile with one of his own. "Well, I would respect your superior intellect much better if we were indoors," I informed him through my chattering teeth.

"Oh, dinner, of course," he recalled quickly. "Let's go then."

I was surprised that he waited for me to join him before taking off down the walkway at a brisk pace. Usually, he left without a second thought, expecting me to chase him down. So I was more than grateful for the rare, considerate gesture.

As we walked along the slick pavement, I turned to him with a curious expression. "Did you find what you needed to at the crime scene?"

He turned to glance at me once again with a surprised expression, almost as if he had forgotten the reason I was with him in the first place. "Oh, that," he waved off my question with a bored expression. "Nothing to it. There were no signs of struggle on the body, and obviously the man was depressed. So it was just a suicide. Not worth my time."

I didn't bother to ask him to explain how he knew the victim was depressed, the explanation might go on for longer than I liked. I just gave him an encouraging smile instead. "At least you let them know it was a suicide in order for them to focus on more important things," I offered with a little shrug.

"I suppose," he muttered in response, but he still didn't seem too pleased. I understood it, though. Sherlock always needed some challenge or another for that ever active brain of his. Boring suicides simply weren't enough.

We walked along in companionable silence until Sherlock hailed down a taxi to take us to a restaurant he liked to frequent. It was a short ride, and I was relieved when we exited the taxi to find the soft glow of candles inside the little Italian restaurant. Looking up at the wooden sign over the door, I found the word "Angelo's" written in big, bold strokes.

"Oh, it looks lovely, Sherlock," I told him with a cheery smile, before preceding him inside.

Once we were finally ensconced in the warm, cozy atmosphere of the restaurant, we were greeted by a jolly looking man with a bushy mustache and grizzly beard. He greeted Sherlock as if they were old acquaintances, and when he turned to look at me, a look of minor shock froze his features before it was quickly erased by a pleasant smile.

"Well, who is this then?" he asked before reaching out to grasp my hand in greeting.

"I'm Molly," I told him with a matching expression of warmth, and his eyes dawned in recognition at the name.

He surprised me then by giving Sherlock a friendly wink. "Finally brought her out on a proper date then?" he asked.

I was rather confused by the question, but didn't have time to think about it as we were quickly shown to a little booth by the large, glass windows lining the front of the restaurant. Once we were seated opposite of one another, the owner brought a little glowing candle to place in the middle of the table. He muttered something about a romantic atmosphere before promptly bustling away to the kitchen in the back.

I looked to Sherlock with a questioning expression, but he held up a hand to wave off the question before it came. "He did the same thing the first time I came here with John," he explained with an unconcerned expression.

That comment gave me a quick moment of pause, sparking a notion I had never considered before. "Sherlock?" I began hesitantly, almost dreading to ask the question. "You don't…" I trailed off, unsure of how to say it. "I mean, you aren't…"

His eyes narrowed in irritation at my failure to voice my thoughts. "No, Molly," he answered in that same bored tone. "I'm not."

I breathed a quick sigh of relief at his assurance. Not that I had anything against that, it was just that all my hoping would have been for nothing had it been true. "Well then why don't you ever… I mean, why don't you go on dates?" I finally managed to finish one of my thoughts.

"I told you once," he replied, giving me a disgruntled frown. "Don't you remember?"

My mind instantly returned to the time when he had explained his stance on relationships. That most blissful, perfect moment of my life. We had never talked of it since. Never repeated it either, much to my dismay. It had just been tucked away in my memory like my own secret treasure, the moment Sherlock Holmes had kissed me.

I felt a slight blush creep up the back of my neck as I looked down to study the place mat in front of me. "I remember, but things can change."

"I don't change," he returned quickly.

I glanced back up at him then. "But, Sherlock, you _have_ changed. Haven't you noticed? Ever since you met John, you've been more…" I trailed off for a moment, attempting to properly gather my thoughts. "Human."

He seemed a bit taken aback by my pronouncement. "Have I?" he questioned me with a genuinely curious expression.

"Yes," I informed him with a quick nod of my head. "You always used to be so cold. Only bothering to notice me when you needed a favor, but you're different now. You actually listen when I say something. You don't treat me like an idiot. I mean, you still say rude things once in a while, but you can't help that. In fact, I consider you a friend."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed a bit as he thought about that. "We are friends, aren't we?" he reasoned aloud, a small smile gracing his lips.

I answered his smile with one of my own. "Yes, we are." There was a beat of silence as I gathered my courage to say something else. "Maybe one day – " I had to stop for a moment to take a deep breath in order to bolster my nerves. "Maybe one day we can be more than that."

I half expected Sherlock to brush off my suggestion without any thought, so I was pleasantly surprised when he seemed to actually consider the thought. "More than friends?" he looked to me for clarification. "I don't think you would like that very much. John said no woman would want to date an annoying dick like me for very long."

I couldn't help the bubble of laughter that escaped my lips at his reason for why I shouldn't date him. "But I know you better than other women," I reminded him quickly once the laughter had subsided. "I know you. I understand. We could try it couldn't we?"

"I don't think so, Molly," he replied in a surprisingly gentle tone. "You wouldn't like it, believe me."

My hopeful smile faltered a bit at his immediate rejection, but I refused to give up hope completely. "You don't know that," I told him, my voice surprisingly even despite the emotion raging inside. "You're a scientist aren't you? You have to perform an experiment to prove your hypothesis. How can you say it won't work if you never try?"

He surprised my even further then by reaching across the space to clasp my hands that were folded tightly together on the edge of the small table. He regarded our joined hands for a few moments before raising his gaze to meet mine. "I don't want to hurt you, Molly," he explained, a rare show of sympathy in his eyes. "I've done that enough don't you think?"

My shoulders sagged a bit then when I realized he wouldn't budge. He wouldn't give us a chance. "All right," I agreed, slipping my hands out from under his. "Let's talk about something else then."

He readily agreed, and we immediately struck up our regular mode of conversation. Discussing John and his latest girlfriend (mostly how quickly Sherlock predicted the relationship to end), the changes Mrs. Hudson was making in their flat, recent cases Sherlock had been looking into, and anything else that would keep us from returning to the subject I had broached at the start of our dinner.

Once we were finished, Sherlock helped me on with my coat before we braved the night air once more to catch one of the passing taxis. Sherlock gave the man the address for my flat, and we settled back as the car rolled along the bumpy streets of London. After the endless stream of conversation in the restaurant, we were both content to watch the passing lights of London in silence. All too soon, we rolled to a stop by the building that housed my flat, and I slid towards the door of the cab, preparing to leave.

Just as my hand grasped the handle, some form of momentary madness seized my brain, and I released the cool metal to instead slide in the opposite direction, towards the other occupant of the small space.

I moved too fast to give Sherlock a hint of my intentions. His eyes sported a look of faint surprise before I reached up to grasp his face and plant my lips firmly on his. He accepted my kiss rather passively at first, most likely because he was too shocked by my unexpected behavior to form any type of response. Then it happened.

One moment he was simply sitting there as stiff as a board, then before I knew it, his arms had wrapped around my waist and he was returning the kiss in full measure. His lips moved gently over mine, stealing the breath from my lungs as we embraced in the small, dark space of the cab. After what seemed an eternity of mindless bliss, I finally had to pull away in order to breathe.

Once I had separated myself from his welcoming arms, we simply stared at one another in the silent space, the cold, night air punctuated only by the sounds of our heavy breathing. "_That's_ why, Sherlock," I finally managed to say once I had caught my breath. "_That's_ why we have to try."

After saying this, I promptly slid across the seat and out of the cab without giving him a chance to respond. Running up the walk as fast as my chilled legs could carry me, I finally reached my destination before walking up the steps and retreating into the safety of the warm building. He didn't try to follow me, but I hadn't expected him to. As I walked up the flight of stairs to my second floor flat, I tried to ignore the little spark of hope that flickered in my heart, but it refused to be disregarded entirely. I was an eternal optimist. That was my curse, and that little part of my heart that wouldn't allow me to give up on Sherlock Holmes fanned the flame of hope even brighter. All I could do now was hope. Hope that he would give us the chance we deserved.

* * *

The next morning, I opened the door of my flat to head to work. I was already in a bit of a hurry as I had overslept a bit due to my little adventure the night before. As I hurriedly exited the apartment, I was moving too quick to see the little package at the foot of my door. Giving a cry of surprise, my toe caught the edge of the little box, sending me sprawling across the open space. Thankfully, I was able to catch the frame of the door before I ended up on the floor in an undignified heap.

Looking down at the source of my near accident with an irritated frown, I instantly froze at the sight of a familiar black box. _Sherlock,_ my optimistic heart whispered, but I tried to ignore the little whisper as I reached down to pick up the unexpected package. I didn't want to build up my hopes only to be let down. Despite my resolution to be sensible, however, my heart hammered against my ribs in anticipation as I snapped up the little lid on the box to find the familiar note underneath.

When I lifted the note from the box, I couldn't help the smile that broke out on my face at the sight of the tiny charm in the shape of a little glowing candle hidden beneath. Tucking the precious box in my coat pocket, I unfolded the note to be met by the welcome sight of Sherlock's words.

_Let the experiment begin. Tonight, 7:30_

_-Sherlock_

After I finished reading the brief note, I sensed something that felt suspiciously like joy bubbling up in my heart. Tucking the precious letter away next to his gift, I started towards the stairs with a cheerful bounce in my step. Tonight couldn't come soon enough.

* * *

_As always, thank you so much for reading! Any comments are always appreciated as well:)_


	4. First Time

**Author's Note: **_Thank you so much for the generous and lovely reviews! I can't say how much the kind words are appreciated. This chapter took longer to write since my main goal of keeping Sherlock true to character was very challenged with this one. I did soften him up just a tad for this little blurb, because, in my mind, that is the affect Molly's influence would have on him. Not too much, of course, but just a little bit. Our next "first" (a rather essential first to any relationship) occurs three months, a few dates, and several kisses later. (I should take this moment to point out that since my fic is rated T, this is more of a buildup to the first time, not a full-blown description of said event.)_

* * *

_Almost midnight._ The glowing numbers on my watch were beginning to blend together slightly as I exerted every ounce of willpower I possessed to continue holding up my drooping eyelids. After a brief struggle, I momentarily surrendered to the impulse to let the weighted lids slide shut. I should have left the lab hours ago, but one of the other girls had complained about feeling a bit under the weather. Generously, I offered to finish her work in order for her to go home and get some much needed rest. At the present moment, I was beginning to think the offer a serious mistake on my part.

I had only intended to shut my eyes for a moment to regain the small supply of strength necessary to finish my work, but the temporary surrender to my bone-weary state must have turned out to be a complete loss of the battle instead. For the next thing I knew, an insistent voice was calling my name, and the intruding call to conscious was accompanied by a vigorous shake of my left shoulder. Cracking open my tired eyes, I found myself looking into the concerned expression of Sherlock Holmes. Realizing at once my error in succumbing to the tempting lull of slumber, I jolted awake with a start, nearly bumping Sherlock's hovering chin in my haste.

"What time is it?" I wondered aloud, as I glanced around frantically to ensure no one else was there to witness my impromptu nap in the workplace.

When I was satisfied the coast was clear, my gaze returned to the man before me, and I noticed his mouth was pressed into a thin line signaling his disapproval of something. It was a look I was very familiar with. "It's late," was all the reply he gave to my query. "Why are you still here? You were supposed to meet me hours ago."

"Oh, God," I moaned as I lifted on of my hands toward my throbbing temples to fend off the impending head ache. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I meant to text you, but I never had the time. I told another girl I'd finish her work for the night, and it took longer than I expected." I finished the explanation with a lame shrug in silent apology of my forgetfulness.

He didn't seem too inclined to accept the apology. "I texted you."

I pulled my mobile from the pocket of my lab coat to verify his statement and found that I did, in fact, have four unanswered texts from the man in question. I was gracious enough not to point out that fact that I had suffered more unanswered texts than that in that in the past few months we had been seeing each other. Sometimes when he was in the middle of a case, I would wait several days before hearing from him. In favor of preserving the peace between us, though, I simply offered him another apologetic look instead of offering up the accusatory statement dancing on the tip of my tongue.

"Take me home?" I asked him then, in hopes of turning the topic in a more neutral direction.

I could tell from the disgruntled expression in those blue eyes that he was in a mood to argue, but the look faded to one of faint concern as his gaze moved over my face to take in my weary appearance. "Get your things," he replied with a jerk of his head toward the counter where my shoulder bag lay in forgotten silence.

Following that statement, he marched toward the door with a determined stride and held it open as he waited for me. Suppressing the urge to roll my eyes at his bossiness, I shed my lab coat in favor of the shapeless brown jumper I had worn to work that morning. Tossing my cumbersome bag over one shoulder to complete the getaway uniform, I strode swiftly through the door Sherlock held ajar at the other end of the room.

We strode through the empty halls in silence, only pausing when I stumbled a bit over my feet that tread heavily over the squeaky, laminate floors. Without waiting for permission, Sherlock lifted the weighted bag from my shoulder before prodding me on with one of those slender hands. Following his direction the rest of the way, I found myself eventually ensconced in the dark interior of a cab with my grumpy escort.

Ignoring his ill humor, I slid over the worn seat to rest my weary head on his wool covered arm. He jerked in surprise at the unexpected move on my part, I had discovered early on in our relationship that Sherlock Holmes was _not_ a cuddler, but after receiving a few moments to accustom himself to the invasion of his personal space, he relaxed the slightest bit. Giving a contented sigh, I burrowed myself further into my claimed space, and rested my eyes once again.

"What happened with that case you were looking into?" I mumbled sleepily into the fabric of his coat.

Any remaining tension from my close proximity evaporated quickly in the face of my question. Nothing relaxed Sherlock better than talk of his detective work. "We found the bride," he answered in that rumbling voice I found so soothing. "She left of her own will. Seems her old lover came to claim her before she married Lord Robert."

My eyes popped open at that surprising bit of information. "And she was going to leave her fiancée without a word?" I questioned, raising my surprised gaze to him. In the dim interior the cab I could make out a faint smirk on his lips that signaled his unconcern at the lady's behavior. Shaking my head slightly in faint censure, I rested my head once again before finishing my thoughts. "That was not a very considerate thing to do."

"Her jilted fiancée felt the same," Sherlock replied. "Though, I suspect, more from a wounded sense of pride than anything else."

I shifted a fraction in discomfort at Sherlock's comment, yet another reminder of his unromantic nature. _Do you really think you can change that?_, a little red devil whispered in my ear. _How long do you think it will be until he breaks off this odd, little relationship the two of you have? It will never work. _I ignored the sneering voice and shut my eyes tightly to fend off the depressing thoughts. This relationship between us could work. It had to.

I must have fallen asleep again, because when I opened my eyes we were at my flat. I was hit with a blast of cool air from outside as Sherlock disentangled himself from me to open the cab door. It seemed to take forever for me to slide out of the cab and clamber up onto the walk beside Sherlock. I heard him begin to tell the cabby to wait there, but I summoned enough strength to postpone the order by latching onto his chilly hand.

"Don't go," I pleaded pitifully once his attention had finally turned to me. He always left. Well, almost always. The two times he had stayed, he ended up spending the evening on my sofa watching late night telly, another sign that I had chosen to ignore of his disinterest in furthering our relationship.

He regarded my imploring expression for what seemed to my sleepy mind an endless eternity before turning to dismiss the waiting cabby. I managed to keep my face somewhat impassive at his acceptance of my request, but I couldn't stop the corner of my mouth that lifted slightly in celebration of my small victory.

After the cabby drove away, we both turned to hurry inside the building. My haste was mostly due to the wish to wearily collapse in my bed rather than the street. Sherlock's haste was most likely due to the same motivation. Once we reached the top of the stairs that led to my flat, it took a few moments of my fumbling with the keys before Sherlock intervened to find the right match and deftly slide it into the lock.

He shoved me quickly into the flat before closing the door with a dull thud and nudging me along to the bedroom. I wondered faintly how he knew the location of my bedroom when he had never ventured further than the loo in my hallway the previous times he had visited here, but the question was soon forgotten as unconsciousness crowded around me. Eventually, I was vaguely aware of two capable hands removing my jumper and shoes before laying me gently on the familiar mattress of my bed. I barely registered the faint sensation of a pair of lips brushing my forehead after the sheets had been pulled tightly around me. Then I knew nothing else.

* * *

It was morning. I tried to ignore the obvious truth as glaring sunlight filtered through my closed lids, but the faint whistle of a tea kettle that drifted through the air persuaded me to rise from my warm cocoon of sleep. Touching one sock-clad foot to the floor, I gingerly tested my strength before adding the other. I stumbled over to my dressing table, intending to run a brush through my mangled locks before venturing into the kitchen to have some of that tea. My plan was abruptly altered when my eyes met the haggard reflection in front of me.

I grimaced at the sight when I realized this was probably much how I appeared last night when begging Sherlock not to leave me. From the sounds of activity in the kitchen he had obviously honored the request. Painfully conscious of my appearance, I quickly started in the direction of the adjoining washroom, shedding my clothes from the night before as I went. Ten minutes later, scrubbed clean with a serviceable cotton robe fitted snugly around me, I left my room to follow the welcome smell of morning tea and fresh toast.

When I finally reached my destination, I was met by the unexpected sight of Sherlock sitting at my kitchen table rather than the sofa where I'd found him the previous two mornings he'd awakened in my flat. On the surface of the table sat my cat Toby, presently getting a welcome scratch between the ears from Sherlock who stared at a cup of just-brewed tea on the counter, obviously deep in thought. I cleared my throat softly to alert Sherlock of my presence. Abruptly, his intense gaze moved quickly to mine before taking a moment to look over my freshly showered appearance.

Once his perusing glance had returned to my face, he lifted the hand that was not petting Toby to point towards the steaming brew on the counter. "I made tea," he stated the obvious before turning his concentration elsewhere once again.

Smarting a bit from his abrupt dismissal, I wandered to the counter and lifted the mug by its ceramic handle before returning to occupy the empty chair on the opposite side of the table. I reached towards the freshly toasted bread and began to butter it before my actions halted at the sound of his voice.

"I believe there is something we need to discuss," Sherlock's pragmatic tone broke the comfortable silence between us.

_It's time, _the vindictive devil whispered in my ear even as I tried to ignore the warning. _He's had enough of you._

I placed the toast on my plate before lifting the steaming cup of tea to conceal the slight tremble of my lips. "What did you want to discuss?" I asked him before gingerly taking a sip from the waiting mug.

The reply that met my query shocked me so much that I sputtered into my mug with a surprised cough, scorching my face and fingers with the splattered tea. Sherlock was startled enough by my yelp of pain to quickly rise from his relaxed position and wet a dishcloth with cool water from the kitchen sink. He quickly returned to offer the sodden rag to me before moving back to his vacated seat.

Once I had successfully removed all trace of the hot tea from my skin, my disbelieving gaze returned to his once more. "What did you say?"

Sherlock's placid expression registered none of my surprise as he repeated the answer I was certain I must have previously misheard. "I said," he began with a slightly exasperated expression that indicated he did not appreciated needing to repeat himself, "it's time we discuss intercourse."

"Why?" The question had escaped my lips before I even realized I had asked it. This was the last conversation I had imagined having over breakfast with Sherlock Holmes. It was all a bit absurd to my sleep-addled brain.

Sherlock's slightly irritated expression became even further so at my sparsely worded question. "I was led to believe that such conversations are necessary between two people who are involved in a romantic relationship. Was I misinformed?"

Perhaps now wasn't the best time to inform him that I had little notion of what people in relationships talked about. My only serious boyfriend had been back when I was at university. We hadn't talked much about "intercourse", as Sherlock had preferred to call it. We just _did_ it. Once we broke up, I hadn't been given much of a chance to discuss the topic since my sexual experience had been limited to a few awkward encounters over the years with men who had eventually decided I that I wasn't worth the effort of a serious relationship. In fact, the last man I dated before Sherlock had been Jim Moriarty, and things had certainly never progressed to that level between us. Thank God. Of course, now was probably not the best time to mention that. Instead, I chose to turn the question back on him.

"What made you decide now was the time to discuss it?" I questioned him cautiously, as if any poorly worded sentence might cause him to drop the topic all together.

Though it might be an unexpected subject, it was most certainly not an unwelcome one. In fact, the longer I considered it, the more I realized we most certainly did need to talk about it. We couldn't keep chugging along like this forever. Eventually we would need more. I would at least. I could only hope the case was the same for him.

He returned my question with a frank stare as he leaned forward to rest his chin on steepled fingers. "You've been thinking about it, clearly," he turned the conversation on me once again. "I should have noticed the signs before, but my mind was too preoccupied with other things." He didn't need to elaborate on what the other things were. His work always took precedence over me. Shaking away the pessimistic thought, I attempted focus on the conversation at hand.

"What signs have you noticed?" I asked him, genuinely curious about what he had observed. It had never been my intention to send any signals his way, not consciously in any case.

"The grooming products in your bath, for one," he answered before reclining once again to observe me from a more relaxed position. "Those gentler waxing products women only use for certain parts of their anatomy when they expect them to be seen."

I ignored the hot blush creeping up the back of my neck in an attempt to summon up an ounce of indignity at his invasion of my personal space. "Why were you in my bath?"

"I needed be clean as well," he replied, gesturing towards my recently washed hair that hung around my shoulders in damp tendrils. "I can't think properly otherwise." _Well, that explains why he smells like my soap,_ I acknowledged silently before returning to my own line of questioning.

"What other signs might you have found that indicated my desire to – I mean – That is – My wish to… " I trailed off weakly, unable to say the words aloud.

Sherlock was considerate enough not to complete the thought for me, choosing instead to answer my question. "That undergarment presently lying in your dressing table drawer was another clear indicator. It's the type a woman only buys if she intends for it to be seen by a lover. New enough to indicate a recent purchase, but one that has gone untouched for a number weeks, if the thin layer of dust surrounding said purchase is any indication."

My face turned an even deeper shade of red at his discovery of that particular undergarment. Mary had talked me into purchasing that thing several weeks ago, and in a moment of weakness, I had followed her advice and bought the lacy scrap of nothing. Of course, I hadn't possessed the boldness necessary to put that particular garment to use. It had simply lain in my drawer, unforgotten, until now.

"Suppose I have thought about it, then," I finally admitted, abandoning the potentially embarrassing discussion of my unused lingerie. "What precisely should we discuss?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed a bit in concentration as if he were trying to recall a particularly vital piece of information. "John says we should discuss each other's expectations."

I couldn't stop my brows from drawing together slightly at that. "You've discussed this with John?"

"It seemed the best course of action to seek advice from someone more knowledgeable on the topic," he answered in a slightly defensive tone.

I wasn't certain which fact surprised me more, that Sherlock had willingly asked advice from someone other than himself or that he admitted lacking knowledge of _any_ topic. As I sorted through my swirling jumble of thoughts, I suddenly realized why he might need advice on this particular topic.

The question left my mouth before I had time to think better of it. "Are you a virgin?"

"Yes," he answered my question quickly, without any trace of shame that most men might feel when admitting to such a thing. "My work has always been more important than other pursuits. I've simply never had time for sex, nor have I wanted to make time for it."

I did think better of asking the next question, but I let the words leave my mouth anyway. "What about now?"

He didn't answer immediately. He gave me a long, hard look as he contemplated his reply, and I tried not to let my growing anxiousness show on my face as I waited for a response. He inhaled deeply as if preparing to give a lengthy speech before his lips opened to form his answer. "Not yet."

I had to think over that for a bit before the meaning sunk in. "But someday?"

He gave the closest thing to a smile then that I had seen all morning. "Yes, someday. You will certainly be the first to know when I think the time is right. I don't want to hurt you, Molly." I was more touched by his last words than the promise that one day he would make the relationship between us a real one. He continued on with what he was saying heedless of my thoughts, a slight grimace now in the place of his previous smile. "If this is what you want, then I will try. I can't promise that you will enjoy it though. In fact, the experience will most likely be rather unpleasant for both of us."

I couldn't help the amused laugh that escaped my lips at his dire assessment of our combined sexual prowess. "Just be gentle, Sherlock. That's all I ask."

The tightness at the corners of his mouth softened once again at my reassurance that I didn't expect perfection. "I shall do my best," he assured with a serious nod of his head before his concentration suddenly turned to the forgotten toast in the center of the table. "Perhaps you should eat your breakfast now. I did take the time to make it, after all."

My rumbling stomach voiced my agreement for me, and our conversation was forgotten for the moment. Later though, when Sherlock pressed a soft kiss to my cheek before departing, I remembered his promise. _Someday. _I could only hope someday wasn't _too_ terribly far away.

* * *

_Three more months, several more dates, and many more kisses later…_

Sherlock walked me up the steps to my flat with a joyful bounce in his step that put an amused smile on my face. We had just returned from a lovely dinner celebrating the latest case he and John had closed the day before. Sherlock had successfully debunked an old lady's fear that her family home was haunted from one of the previous owner's. It turned out one of her nephews was trying to frighten her into leaving the house by playing on her superstitious nature. However, I suspected Sherlock's glee stemmed more from the fact he had been able to prove the old lady wrong rather than managing to save her home.

As we approached my door, I pressed a quick peck to his smiling mouth before turning to say goodnight. Just as my hand reached up to push open the door, he stopped me by gently covering my hand with his. Confused, I turned to look at him with a curious expression. As his only reply, he extended his other hand towards me, with something hidden there between his palm and curled fingers.

When he opened the fingers to reveal the familiar black box underneath, I felt a nervous butterfly somersault somewhere in the pit of my stomach. I looked up from the box to his face for some sort of explanation, but he simply continued to stand there in silence, offering up the black case as his only answer.

Reaching out with slightly shaking fingers, I took the proffered gift and opened the lid to reveal the customary note and sparkling charm beneath. I ignored the note for a moment in favor of studying the charm but was a bit puzzled by what I saw. Lying against the black, velvet interior of the box was a sparkling charm in the shape of a little clock. I glanced at Sherlock once again in search of answers but was met only by silence.

Suddenly remembering the folded note, I shifted the box into the crook of my elbow before unfolding the paper. As I took in the two words printed on the paper in Sherlock's hand, I felt the little butterfly fluttering around in my stomach joined by a multitude of others as my breathing hitched up a notch after reading his words.

_Be gentle_

_- Sherlock_

Forcing my voice to as normal a pitch as possible in my state of nervous excitement, I looked back towards his expectant face. "I'll do my best," I promised quietly, before promptly pulling him into the flat after me. Neither of us did a great deal of speaking after that.

* * *

_Thank you so much for reading! I hope the reading was enjoyable! All comments are always appreciated:)_


	5. Moving In

**Author's Note: **_As always, thanks so much for the reviews! In reply to a question by __**latershiplords**__, no, unfortunately there will be no further snippets of the previous chapter. Sorry if anyone wanted things steamier, but I just feel like the imagination is best when it comes to anything like that with Sherlock. There will be glimpses of a few steamyish moments in future chapters though, so I hope that will fulfill the wish somewhat:) Now on with the story. Our next big moment occurs six months later…_

* * *

"There," I said with a satisfied grin, stepping back to admire my handiwork with an approving eye. "You look lovely. Not even Sherlock Holmes could find a fault."

Mary looked over her reflection for a few moments with critical perusal before she let loose a brilliant smile to match my own. "I do look rather nice," she replied before her cheerful expression took a more playful turn. "However, I think Sherlock Holmes can always be counted on to find a fault with anyone."

My immediate reaction was to open my mouth in preparation to defend the absent accused, but I promptly closed it in reluctant acknowledgement of the accuracy of her statement. Mary shot me a smile then of sympathetic understanding, a look we had often given one another when left to our own devices after being once again abandoned by the two men we loved. I loathed that look.

"How long will the both of you be away?" I asked in attempt to divert her attention elsewhere.

Mary gave me a discerning look as if she knew exactly what I was about, but, gratefully, she let the subject drop in favor of a more agreeable one. "John made plans for us to stay in Italy for a week, traveling around to see the different sights before we move on to Paris for another four days," she answered with a blissfully happy expression before the corners of her mouth turned down in a slight frown of resignation. "Then it's back to the daily grind," she finished with a slight sigh.

I gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze before catching her eye in the mirror with that familiar sympathetic grin. "But what a wonderful fortnight you'll have away from it all."

"I certainly plan to," she answered, the cheerful expression in place once more.

Mary wasn't the type who could stay dour for very long. She and John could not have been more perfect for one another in that respect. Four months ago, when she had first flashed the sapphire currently residing on her most important finger, I had squealed in delight like a little child on Christmas morning before congratulating John on his tremendous taste in jewelry and life partners.

Sherlock had given a significantly less excited response to their engagement, though I could see that he was genuinely happy for his friend. There was a trace of pessimism mixed in amongst the joy (very well, a rather hefty amount with the former being the most verbal of the two emotions), but he didn't attempt to persuade John to change his mind. He had even agreed to do the honors of best man, astounding me even further.

When the day of our friends' union arrived, I had briefly harbored the lingering fear that Sherlock might change his mind about standing up with John, but he arrived at my flat that afternoon just as planned, looking very handsome as always in his formal attire. Standing there with Mary in the bridal suite, I still felt a little flutter of pleasure as I recalled the small compliment he muttered upon seeing me.

"Very pretty, Molly," he murmured absently in that no nonsense tone of his.

From his lack of enthusiasm he might have been giving a lengthy discourse on the nature of blood circulation, but I felt absurdly pleased all the same. Receiving a compliment from Sherlock Holmes, no matter how small or insignificant, was something akin to discovering the cure for the common cold. Tremendously exiting and entirely unexpected.

Mary's amused voice promptly snatched me from the cloudy haze of my lovely memory. "What are you smiling about?"

"Oh, it's nothing," I mumbled quietly, but I could feel a heated flush stealing up the back of my exposed neck and onto my powdered cheeks.

At the sight of my reddened face, Mary turned from addressing my reflection in the polished mirror to pursue her line of inquiry face to face, but I was graciously saved from the imminent interrogation by the sound of an opening door.

"Are you ready, dear?" The sound of Mrs. Morstan's voice floated towards us through the open door.

At the sound of her mother's question, the mysterious thought behind my blush was immediately forgotten. "All ready, Mother," Mary called, a red tint of her own now highlighting the sharp angle of her cheeks.

"Good luck," I whispered before giving my friend a quick hug of reassurance and exiting the little space to give her a last moment of privacy.

As I passed by Mrs. Morstan, she took a moment to give me a look of maternal approval. "You look very pretty, Molly," she said warmly, echoing Sherlock's earlier sentiment, before passing by me to spend a few minutes alone with the bride-to-be.

Once I had closed the door behind me, I took a brief second to glance in one of the mirrors lining the foyer of the small chapel. The face that looked back at me appeared much the same as it had that morning. My light brown hair was pulled back in a loose chignon similar to the rest of the bridal party, and my mint green dress gently hugged my less-than-generous bosom before flaring out past my hips. I thought my face looked rather much the same as it always did. Certainly nothing different enough to warrant two compliments in one day. Giving a perplexed shrug, I ventured toward the entrance of the chapel ready to perform my part in the ceremony.

It was a beautiful ceremony too. I had never seen John or Mary both so sublimely happy. When they recited their heartfelt vows to one another, I had to discreetly move my left hand across my cheek to wipe away a small tear of joy. As the little minister performing the service talked about the sanctity of their union, I stole a glance toward Sherlock who stood as still and stiff as an army sergeant by John's right. He appeared quite unmoved by the whole affair.

After the vows were said and done, everything happened in a bit of a blur. The blushing bride and gleeful groom exited the small chapel to the cheers of their friends and family, and we were all escorted to the club being used for the reception. With all the moving and hustling around, there wasn't much time for talking. The bridal party took a short while to take pictures in order to document the occasion, the photographer barking out orders for us to stand and pose in this position or that.

It was with great relief when I was finally granted the opportunity to sink into an upholstered chair in front of a place card with the name "Molly Hooper" embossed in gold on the creamy parchment. After a short meal, I heard the crooning tone of Michael Buble's silky voice informing the guests that the dancing was about to start.

John and Mary were first to take the floor, looking quite happy and radiant, the strain of the day showing not at all on their smiling faces. Once they had finished, Mary's father moved to take over the groom's duties as John handed over the bride with a generous smile before turning in my direction.

"Care to dance, Molly?" John asked cheerfully, after finally reaching my side.

I looked around questioningly for a moment before replying. "You're not going to ask the mother of the bride?" I replied confusedly.

"She told me she didn't care to make an embarrassing spectacle of herself in front of all these people," he said with a hint of a humorous smile.

I gave an answering chuckle to his response before taking the proffered hand. "Then I'd be most happy to dance."

As we twirled around the floor to the strains of a bluesy saxophone, I remembered to send up a silent prayer of thanks for my mother's insistence that I take dance lessons as a child. "Have you finished with moving into the new house," I questioned John as we moved around the floor. I was never the type who could do anything in silence.

"Yes," he replied with an affirmative nod. "There weren't a great deal of things to be moved. Most everything in the flat belongs to Sherlock. The biggest reason everything was in a tit most of the time."

I couldn't help but laugh at John's excuse for the disorganized state of their flat. "I'll never forget finding those toes in the microwave," I whispered with a slight shudder.

"That's not the worst of it. Believe me," he teased back.

I shook my head to stop the further revelation of Sherlock's living habits. "I'd rather not know," I protested with a horrified chuckle. "It must be rather interesting living with Sherlock."

"There's certainly never a dull moment," he admitted with a fond smile.

I cocked my head slightly to regard him with a puzzled look. "Will you miss it? Living with him?"

He had to think that over for a moment before venturing a reply. "Yes and no," he finally spoke. "Sometimes I wanted to toss him out a window, but other times…" his voice drifted off then, like he was uncertain how to put it. As he took another breath to finish the unspoken thought, we were interrupted the sound of light applause signaling the end of the dance.

I thanked John for the dance and prepared to return to my seat, but I was stopped by the sight of Sherlock coming to join me. I was slightly taken aback to see him moving from the seat where he had been silently planted for the last hour, ignoring everything and everyone around him. He did that sometimes when he was lost in the palace of his own thoughts. Now, however, he seemed to have returned to the land of the living as he approached me with his usual self-certain walk.

He reached the place where I stood with a few long-legged strides and held out his arms in an unspoken request. I just looked at the extended limbs before shooting him a perplexed look. "You dance?"

"Quite well," came the succinct response. Would the man ever cease to amaze me?

I entered his welcoming embrace just as the next song began. "When did you learn to dance?" I asked him just as his arms locked about my waist to move me across the polished dance floor.

"I was forced into taking lessons with Mycroft when we were both boys," he answered, affording me a rare glimpse into his childhood. "I was better, of course."

I smiled at his boast. "Perhaps your brother has improved over the years," I mused, not willing to accept his superior statement so easily.

Sherlock gave me a haughty look then that made me want to send him an adoring smile at his predictable nature. I held the impulse in check. It wouldn't do to get too sentimental on him. "Doubtful," was the only argument he gave to my previous statement.

Resting my head on his shoulder as the music continued to drift around us, I finally let the threatening smile escape. Sherlock didn't mind my desire for closer proximity. In fact, he tightened his arms the slightest bit, pulling me a bit further into his lean frame.

There was a time I feared he would never let me be so close to him, physically or emotionally, but he had surprised me over the last few months by letting me in, inch by inch behind those walls of protection he kept built so securely around himself. I couldn't help loving him even more for it. Of course, I had never said the words aloud. Sherlock might be starting to let me into that scientific soul of his, but he wasn't ready to hear yet how much I felt for him. _Someday, though_, I promised him silently as we continued around the floor.

While lost in the romantic thoughts spinning about my head, I barely registered whatever it was that Sherlock was saying, until the last sentence to leave his mouth. "You can be moved into the flat by the end of the week."

The romantic haze surrounding me was abruptly pierced by his last statement, uttered in such a matter-of-fact, businesslike manner. Almost as if he were proposing a merger. "Move in?" I questioned, pulling back suddenly from our embrace to look him in the eye. "Why would I do that?"

Sherlock's unconcerned expression darkened slightly at my resistance. "Why not?" he bit off irritably. "It's the only logical choice."

"Logical," I repeated stupidly. My pleasant mood from moments before had evaporated entirely into the atmosphere at his choice of words.

"Yes, logical," he replied, more pacified now by my lack of argument which he had mistaken for acceptance of his plan. "First, it's more economical for the both of us. With John leaving I'll need another person to share the flat, and you would be better off if sharing the cost of living with me rather than keeping your flat all at your own expense. Also, it would be more convenient for me to have you at the flat rather than crossing half way across town to see you. A much better use of time on both our parts. And last, – "

It took a supreme effort on my part not to clamp both hands over my ears in an effort to shut out the last of his "logical" reasons for asking me to move in with him.

"Last, I think it would be very pleasant waking up to your face every morning," he finished, stunning me so much with his words that my mouth dropped open in a very unladylike way.

At the sight of my face frozen into a mask of shock, Sherlock began to look the slightest bit alarmed. "I would prefer your face not look like that, though," he made sure to point out.

That was enough to snap me out of my stunned silence. Giving a soft laugh relief I stopped dancing and promptly pulled him into a fierce hug. He still seemed a bit mystified at my behavior but allowed me the impromptu embrace. "That's the most romantic thing you've ever said to me," I whispered, holding him close.

"I hadn't intended it to be romantic," Sherlock defended himself. "I was simply telling you why – "

I reached up tenderly to cover his mouth before he could ruin the moment. "Yes, I'll move in with you," I answered, before resuming our dancing once more and placing my head on his shoulder where it had been several minutes before.

"Of course you will," I heard him grumble over my head, as if amazed that I could mistake his earlier statement about cohabitation as a request. The soaring music drowned out the sound of my mirth.

* * *

Sherlock sat in the kitchen, staring into his microscope, as I was finishing up the last of the many boxes we had moved from my flat the day before. He said since the boxes were mine, I would have no difficulty putting everything where I wanted it while he was busy working on his cases. I shook my head at his unchivalrous reasoning but had decided to let the matter go. There wasn't a great deal of unpacking to do as it was, and I had never been much of a hoarder.

As I was tugging Toby out of one of the boxes, I heard Sherlock yell from the kitchen, "I forgot to tell you, I left something on the mantle."

I turned in his direction to ask for further clarification, but he was already lost once again in his work. Once I had successfully dislodged Toby from his claimed box, I ventured in the direction of the fireplace and caught sight of a little black box. Feeling my lips stretch into a grin of anticipation, I reached up to pluck the little box from the shallow ledge and opened it to reveal a charm in the shape of a miniature, golden key resting underneath the folded note. Pocketing the present, I unfolded the note to read Sherlock's words.

_Welcome home, Molly Hooper._

_- Sherlock_

_P.S. Please don't disturb the foot in the fridge. It's for an experiment._

I emitted an unexpected burst of terrified laughter at those last words. Torn between equal parts horror and delight, I returned to my unpacking before recalling John's earlier words. _Never a dull moment, indeed._

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Any comments would be great:)_


	6. I Love You

**Author's Note: **_The next first is a personal favorite of mine. This is heavier in tone than the previous entries, but I hope it will be enjoyable as well. The significant moment occurs approximately 10 months after Molly has moved into 221 Baker Street with our famed detective._

* * *

_Pain._ It was the only thought that pervaded the hazy shadows surrounding my consciousness. I couldn't escape it. The indescribable ache wrapped around me like a suffocating disease, threatening to drain the life from my bones. Oblivion beckoned to me like a siren's call. I could escape the pain. I needed only surrender.

My attempt to yield to the darkness was momentarily halted by the voice that reached through the prison of hurt that trapped my entire being. _"Molly," _it spoke, the pain I felt magnified ten times in its desperate plea. That was all it said. _"Molly_." I understood the unspoken request all the same. _Don't leave. Don't go._ Fighting back the grasping arms of death that reached out to me through the gloom, I heeded the voice. I didn't go.

* * *

The incessant beep of a heart monitor roused me from my peaceful dreams to drag my drowsy mind into a more alert state. Prying open eyes laden down from sleep, I took in the stark white walls of my hospital room that testified to the sterile condition of the place. My meandering gaze was quickly drawn from inspecting the cleanliness of the room to the dozing man by my side.

Sherlock's familiar face was currently resting against the paper thin sheet of my hospital bed, his dark, curly hair contrasting starkly against the white linens. On closer inspection, I found that the hand not cradling his weary head was wrapped around mine in a tight grip. There were dark circles peaking out from beneath the fringe of his lashes and a light growth shadowed the line of his jaw, giving him a slightly haggard appearance, but to my adoring eyes, there had never been a more beautiful sight than a sleeping, unshaven Sherlock Holmes. I wanted to sob with relief at the sight of him.

As if sensing the pair of eyes that studied him so closely, Sherlock stirred a bit before opening his eyes. He looked a bit unfocused at first, as if he were uncertain where to look, but then his eyes landed on me and his cloudy expression became startlingly clear. Gripping my hand tightly, he simply looked at me for an unbroken period of silence, as if wanting to reassure himself I was still there.

"You're awake," he finally spoke in a toneless expression.

I nodded my head slowly, conscious of the oxygen mask hooked onto my face. "Are you all right?" I questioned him, unconcerned for my own state of health.

I was startled to see the spark of anger that lit his gaze at my question. Releasing the firm grip on my hand, he stood and began to pace the room in the agitated way he was often prone to do when perplexed by a difficult problem. "Of course I'm all right," he spoke angrily while continuing his restless pacing. "You threw yourself in front of the bullet meant for me, nearly killing _yourself_ in the process. Why wouldn't I be all right?" I didn't miss the heavy sarcastic emphasis he placed on those last two words. What I didn't understand was why he was so angry at me.

When I saw Sebastian Moran pull that trigger, my only instinct hadn't been towards self-preservation, but to save the man I loved. Moran, one of Moriarty's accomplices, had taken it into his head to finish his mentor's work by dispatching the man who had been the reason for his demise. He had hunted Sherlock with ruthless efficiency, finally culminating in a tense confrontation at the spot where Sherlock had lured him to end the madness. The very place Moriarty had taken his own life.

Sherlock had told me to stay out of it, that he and Lestrade had a handle on the situation, and I had fully intended to obey orders. How was I to know that the colonel would resort to kidnapping, thereby irrevocably involving me in the situation? Watching Sherlock's face now, I was transported back to that moment when he saw me accompany Moran out onto that rooftop, with the latter's gun digging into the base of my neck. The horror and disbelief imprinted on his face in that moment still lingered even now.

Moran had meant to use my presence to unsettle the unflappable detective, and he had succeeded only too well, drawing Sherlock's attention away from where it was needed most, on the gun in his hand. Fortunately, I was only too keenly aware of the cold metal barrel pressed against my skin, so when it turned in the direction of the one man I couldn't live without, I didn't stop to think. I just reacted. Just as Moran squeezed the trigger, I yanked viciously on his arm, dislocating the weapon from his firm grip and sending the lethal bullet into me instead. I didn't remember much beyond that.

As I pondered the events that had landed me in my current position, Sherlock's ceaseless pacing suddenly drew to a halt and he turned to pin me with an intense glare. "Why?" was all he asked, demanding so much of me with that one word.

Growing irritated at his bull-headed persistence in staying cross with me for saving his life, I folded my arms and regarded him with a mulish expression. "You know why."

Unsatisfied by that answer, Sherlock shook his head violently in denial of the truth before moving closer to tightly grasp my shoulders, taking care to avoid the bandaged hole beneath my collar bone. "It was a stupid thing to do," he asserted, cutting me deeply with his words. I didn't expect him to fall to his knees in thanks for my sacrifice, but he could have at least been the littlest bit grateful for it. Instead I was rewarded with his ire. Heedless of my chaffed feelings, Sherlock continued to berate me. "Don't ever take such a foolish risk again. The bullet was only centimeters from your heart. You could have died." His face twisted almost painfully at those last words.

Suddenly, I understood that the source of his anger was more due to the fear of losing me than my own actions. Comforted by that knowledge, I reached up to cradle his pale face and gave him a wobbly smile. "He tried to kill you, Sherlock. I couldn't let that happen, but everything's fine now," I reassured him, trying to sooth his frazzled state somewhat.

However, my reassurance seemed to have only the opposite affect. At my comforting words, Sherlock abruptly shook off my touch as if it caused him some sort of physical pain. "Everything is _not_ fine!" he insisted, backing away with an almost wild look creeping into his eyes. "Don't you see? Nothing is _fine_." He spit out the last word as if it disgusted him.

Rendered speechless by Sherlock's strange behavior, I could only stare at him helplessly. I opened my mouth to try and calm him, but even as I took a deep breath to voice the words, I wasn't certain what to say. Fortunately, I was saved from needing to respond by the sudden appearance of Mary and John.

"Molly!" Mary practically shouted with loud relief as she burst into the room. "You're awake. Thank, God!"

She rushed forward to enfold me in a loose hug, making sure not to aggravate my injury. With different wires sticking out of my body, impeding my movements, I returned the hug as much as possible. When she pulled back to release me, I looked back to the spot where Sherlock had stood only to find him gone.

My disappointment must have registered on my face because John, who had quietly followed his wife into the room, instantly hastened to put my mind at rest. "He'll be all right."

"I was only trying to help," I defended myself, trying to still the betraying tremble of my lower lip.

John quickly reached out to enfold my hand in a comforting grasp. "He knows that. You've scared him out of his wits is all. Your heart almost stopped, Molly," he confessed in a quiet voice. As if speaking the thought too loud might prove a bad omen for my slowly returning health. "When you were lying on that roof he wouldn't let you go until he was certain you would live. Just kept saying your name until he made you listen."

_Molly. _I suddenly remembered the voice that had called to me through the darkness. _If not for Sherlock…_ I didn't even want to finish the morbid thought. "Then why is he so angry?" I couldn't help asking, a petulant whine finding its way into my voice.

Mary took the opportunity to answer this time. "Because he cares about you, darling. You're the only one I've met who can send Sherlock Holmes into an emotional tailspin." She finished this last statement with a fond smile as she looked to John for confirmation.

"It's true," John confirmed his wife's words with an affirmative nod. "He only gets like this when something really matters. You'd only have reason to worry if he _wasn't_ raging about like a lunatic."

I still wasn't entirely convinced but decided to steer the topic on a different course. "What happened to – " I broke of the question with a choked sob, unable to say the name of the man who had come so close to ending my life.

"You don't have to worry about him ever again," Mary quickly spoke, consoling me with a maternal pat of my arm. "Never again," she repeated, making certain to drive the point home.

Even as I breathed a sigh of relief at her assurance of my safety, my respite from the stress of the day was briefly interrupted by the reminder of a certain irate consulting detective. _Well, at least I have one less thing to worry about_, I thought morosely as my eyelids drifted shut in weary sleep once more.

* * *

When I woke again, Sherlock was back, standing at the end of my bed with a serious expression. I was relieved to see whatever strange state he had been in before, he seemed to have returned to normal now. (Well, normal for Sherlock.) His hair had been restored to order instead of the wild mass it had been before, and the growth on his chin had been disposed of with a close shave.

"How are you feeling?" he asked when he saw that I was awake.

"Like I've been shot," I tried to joke with a weak smile. At the wounded look on his face I instantly knew that it had been the wrong thing to say. "I'm feeling better," I hastily amended my ill attempt at humor.

Sherlock's expression relaxed slightly, but he still managed to send me an irritated glance over my earlier comment. "Please don't joke, Molly. You'll never be very good at it."

"Sorry," I mumbled, flashing him an apologetic grin. "Where did you go earlier?"

"I needed to think," he explained, not really answering my question.

My forehead wrinkled into worried little lines as I waited for him to continue speaking, but when no other words came I prodded him on. "What were you thinking about?"

He had been staring intently at the floor for the past several seconds, but when the last question left my mouth, his eyes slid back to mine. I didn't expect to find the haunted look that lurked behind those cobalt eyes. "You."

His simple response shifted my mind back to a sacred moment we had shared in this very hospital. A moment where my entire world had shifted on its axis at that one-worded answer. He approached me very slowly then, just as he had that spectacular day several years ago. My heart began to accelerate with every step closer, the anticipation rising with every inch of space that closed between us. The monitor by my side began beeping at a frantic rate, but neither of us paid much mind to the intruding noise.

When Sherlock had finally reached my side, he held out his hand, extending a small black box to me without offering any explanation to the reason for his gift. Quickly, I reached out to accept the offering and popped open the lid to find a little red heart glinting cheerfully in the light. I looked for the note that usually accompanied his presents but could find none. Looking back at him in bewildered confusion, I awaited him to clarify the situation.

"I wanted to say the words this time," he eventually spoke, his voice low and gravelly with a betraying tremor underlying the deep baritone. "When you were lying in my arms on that rooftop about to die, I knew I couldn't let you do that. You've always counted. I've known that for some time, but I didn't know just _how_ much you counted until you were almost gone. For so long I took it for granted."

It was beginning to become difficult to see his face through the blur of tears that threatened to spill over at any moment, but I managed to still the tremble in my voice long enough to respond. "What did you take for granted?"

He sat on the edge of my raised bed then, reaching up to cradle my face in a tender gesture that threatened to break my heart into a thousand pieces. "That you would always be with me," he whispered barely loud enough for me to hear. "I never knew how much I needed you before. I don't think I can live without you, Molly Hooper." The tears did spill onto my cheeks then, but Sherlock continued on, heedless of the wet trails that slid down my face and onto his fingers. "I never believed in love. I always thought it was some silly sentimental notion other people spoke about when all they really felt was lust accompanied by some temporary emotional attachment. When you almost stopped breathing in my arms I finally understood, what John and all the others talk about. I was finally able to see, and it scared the hell out of me."

"What did?" I pressed, still waiting to hear the words I had yearned for so long.

"You do," he said, his voice rising in pitch as that slightly wild look crept into his gaze once more. "I didn't think it could be true, but it has to be. When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be true."

I almost took pity on him at the panicked look on his face, but I had to hear it. I had to know. "What truth, Sherlock?"

He struggled for a few moments to say it. Several times his mouth opened only to snap shut again, until after several attempts he was finally able to speak the words aloud. "I love you." He said the words as if they were wrenched from the very depths of his carefully hidden soul. Once the words were said, he seemed to relax the slightest bit, as if an awful burden had finally been lifted from his shoulders. "It's not terribly convenient," he continued on in a slightly calmer voice. "It never will be I'm afraid, but it's true."

"I-I-I'm glad it's t-true," I managed to blubber through the wash of tears that continued to fall. The relief at the knowledge that he felt as deeply for me was a relief too acute for me to bear in silence, and in my emotionally fragile condition, that relief chose to manifest itself in a fit of uncontrollable weeping. "I l-love you too."

"You don't need to cry about it," Sherlock swiftly assured me, pulling my shaking body against his chest in a warm embrace.

"Oh, yes I d-do," I argued even as I wrapped my arms around him in response, bringing my trembling mouth to his to quiet my sobs with his kiss.

As he returned the kiss with gentle fervor, I realized that our confessions of love hadn't been the most romantic imaginable. There had been no softly spoken declarations of undying affection or gallant gestures, but I knew that it had still been perfect all the same. Sherlock Holmes loved me, and I couldn't have asked for anything better than that.

* * *

_Thank you so much for reading! All comments are greatly appreciated, as always._


	7. First Not Just a Mere Disagreement Fight

**Author's Note: **_All my thanks for the kind responses, alerts, follows, etc.! Y'all are so nice to me and this little Sherlolly story:) __Our next first takes place almost one year later, following Molly Hooper's near brush with death. The rather lengthy title of this selection explains it all…_

* * *

He was late. Again. Uncurling myself from the warm nook in the couch I had been inhabiting for the better part of four hours, I wandered towards the mantle and retrieved my mobile that I had flung there a short time earlier in a rare show of temper. I was a patient person after all. In fact, I considered myself to be one of the most patient, understanding people I knew, but after three years of dating Sherlock, two of those years spent in rather close proximity, I had come to the conclusion that Sherlock Holmes would try the patience of a saint. And I was no saint.

I slid open the lock on the glowing screen, and the edges of my pursed lips curved downward in a full frown of displeasure. It was past midnight, and the day of my thirty-fifth birthday gone with it. He'd done it to me again. Shoving the offending device into one of the baggy pockets of my knit jumper, I pivoted away from the mantle and marched around the room with an agitated gait.

I took a deep breath and tried counting backwards from fifty in an attempt to hold the growing sense of wrath at bay. It wasn't working. By the time I reached the count of one, I found myself even angrier than before. I was taken aback to hear a sudden growl of rage and even more surprised to find that the unexpected sound had come from me. I was hardly the most volatile of personalities, but he had finally pushed me over the edge from mild irritation into a full blown fit of blazing fury. Frankly, I was impressed with my tolerance in the three whole years that it had taken for me to finally reach my breaking point.

Just as I was contemplating storming about town in search of the man who had forgotten my birthday for the third year in a row, thereby resulting in my current furious state, my thoughts of revenge were interrupted by the sound of the front door to our flat closing with a decisive click. I turned to find a serene detective who looked not at all like a repentant boyfriend that had failed to acknowledge one of the most important moments in the life of his significant other. The sight was enough to send my already agitated temper soaring even higher.

Naturally, he was completely oblivious to my current distress as he shed his coat and unwound the trademark purple scarf before discarding both items on the couch where I had been sitting during his absence.

"Still up?" He asked the question absently before turning to walk into the kitchen, not even bothering to wait for a response.

When the expected reply never came, he came to a halt before spinning back to give me a curious look. "Something the matter, Molly?"

That was it. The temper I had tried so valiantly to suppress all evening let loose with a terrible vengeance. "Why would something be the matter, Sherlock?" I shot back at his question with a sarcastic one of my own. "It's not as if I expected you to spend the evening with me on my thirty-fifth birthday. It's not as if I cancelled work for the evening or begged off spending time with my Mum to have a special night with you instead." My voice was rising higher and higher with each word, but I continued on regardless. I began to feel a few angry tears leaking out the corner of each eye, and I hastily reached up a hand to wipe away the offending wetness.

"It's not as if I expected you to remember, just once, that you planned to spend some time with me instead of running around London trying to solve another case for strangers that mean less than nothing to you," I continued on. "It's not as if I expected you to put me above your work just once."

I had intended to say more, but an angry sob cut off the remaining words. It was probably for the best. My thoughts that had gone unspoken were no more flattering to him than the rest.

Sherlock didn't respond to my remarks with similar fury. Instead, he got that perplexed look on his face that he always had when trying to puzzle out a particularly difficult question. "You're upset I see," he finally spoke in a faintly patronizing tone. "Why don't we discuss this in the morning when you're less emotional?"

"I'm not emotional!" I shouted in response to his ridiculous suggestion. "I'm angry! I'm so angry at you I can barely see straight!"

His blue eyes narrowed in an expression that hinted at a slight exasperation on his part. "For God's sake, Molly. What is there to be so angry about? It's only a birthday. They come around every year."

I had never wanted to scream at another human being in my life, until now. Summoning up a great deal of willpower, I barely managed to restrain the infantile urge before responding. "It's not just my birthday! It's every unanswered text message, every broken date, every night going to bed alone wondering when you'll come home. It's seeing you take more interest in that microscope than in me." I jabbed an accusing finger in the direction of the ever-present object that sat atop our kitchen table, blissfully unaware of my resentful declaration.

Sherlock looked decidedly more affected than his cherished tool of science. "I've never lied to you about how important my work is," he flung back in the same accusatory tone. "I never pretended to be something I'm not. I've only been completely honest with you from the start. My work is essential as my mind needs ever present activity in order to keep it from languishing in boredom. You've always known that, so I hardly see why you've chosen the present moment to become upset about it."

My feelings quickly turned from anger to hurt at his refusal to defend himself against my claims that his work meant more to him than I did. "No, you don't see at all, Sherlock," I replied sadly before turning to grab my coat and heading straight out the door.

"Where are you going?" I heard the frustrated question come from behind me just before I closed the door with a deafening slam.

* * *

My head rested sleepily on the polished wood surface of the bar top as I idly traced patterns in the condensation that had gathered on the chilled glass holding my drink. I didn't know how long I sat in the little pub since leaving Sherlock in our Baker Street flat. I just knew that I needed the time alone to think. My phone had buzzed several times after I first arrived, the glowing numbers identifying Sherlock as the relentless caller. I had finally turned off the mobile after the tenth unread text popped up on my screen.

Despite my annoyance at him, one small part of me was slightly relieved that at least he cared enough to find out where I was. Though the relief wasn't enough inducement for me to reply to the text. Maybe it would do him well to be on the receiving end of such treatment for once.

So I sat there by myself, nursing a drink that went mostly untouched, while I contemplated my relationship with the world's only consulting detective. It had never been a typical relationship to be sure, but I had always known that would be the case when it began. I winced when I remembered Sherlock's accusation that I had always known what to expect. The truth was, I _had_ known what to expect, but that silly little school girl part of me had hoped that perhaps he would change.

Maybe I had expected him to become some starry eyed suitor who made grand gestures for the woman he loved. The thought made me uncomfortable. I had fallen in love with the intelligent, outspoken, workaholic detective. Was it really fair of me to ask him to change? But what if he never changed? What if he would always choose his work over me? What then? I grabbed my head in aggravation as the never ending questions continued to pour through my fatigued brain.

"This reminds me of many a late night binge I would have when living with Sherlock."

The clipped voice quickly drew my attention away from musings of Sherlock to the kind face regarding me from beside my perch at the bar. Giving a resigned smile, I gestured for him to join me.

"How did you find me here?" I asked once he had finally seated himself.

John gave me another of those warm looks before answering. "Mary."

"Traitor," I muttered before turning my grumpy gaze back to the forgotten glass in front of me. I wasn't stupid enough to go running around London in the dead of night without telling anyone where I had gone. For some reason I had expected Mary to keep that information to herself.

"She was worried about you," John answered in a reasonable tone, defending his wife's actions.

I couldn't very well argue with that point. "Well I'm perfectly all right."

"Are you?"

I turned to look at him again, and was comforted by the sympathetic expression I found there. "I suppose you _are_ the only person who would understand."

"I most certainly do. I did tell you life would never be dull with Sherlock."

I couldn't help but give a wry smile at that. "Dull might be nice sometimes."

"Sherlock's many things, Molly, but dull isn't one of them."

"I know," I finally admitted with a resigned sigh. "Sometimes though I just wish…" my voice petered off for a moment while I tried to think of what it was I really wanted before finishing the thought. "I suppose, sometimes I just wished he would _try_ more. Half the time it feels like he doesn't care about us at all. Like he'd be happy sitting in front of that microscope all day without me anywhere near to distract him. I've lost count of the times he's failed to notice I'm not even in the room any more."

"I don't know what to tell you about the last part," John admitted. "He'll probably always be like that, but with Sherlock I've come to expect nothing less. For the other, though, he does try. You know he does. He never would have started this relationship with you if he wasn't trying. He's a sod sometimes, I know. Seeing only the facts and forgetting to understand simple human nature, but that's our Sherlock. He'll never be like other people, but he is trying. As angry as you get with him sometimes, you have to remember that. Many a time I wanted to strangle him, but he was always my friend. No matter how much of a dick he was being."

"I do love him very much," I answered back with a fond smile. "I don't like him all the time, but I do love him."

"Enough to forgive him?" John asked.

I didn't have to think about the answer to that question for very long. "Yes."

John's smile became more jolly than commiserating at my response. "Go home to him then, Molly. The man's been driving me mad for hours since you left. I would like to get _some_ sleep tonight."

I gave him an apologetic look then when I realized that Sherlock had turned to badgering him because of my failure to respond to his messages, but I wasn't entirely ready to go back with the memory of our fight still vividly fresh in my mind. "I said some pretty terrible things to him," I confessed with a downcast gaze.

John gave a soft laugh in response to my distress. "Molly, I've heard Sherlock say more offensive things in the space of one hour than most human beings say in their whole lives. I doubt he would hold it against you. Besides, he was the one who wanted to come get you in the first place. The only thing that held him back was me volunteering instead. I told him that he was probably the last person you wanted to talk to at the moment. Though, I hope that's changed by now."

He spoke the last sentence as more of a question than a statement, as if waiting for my confirmation of the fact. "It has," I verified with a sleepy grin and a nod. "I think I'm ready to go home now."

John didn't bother to hide the relief on his face, though I secretly suspected that some of the relief might be more due to the fact that he could return to his own home for some sleep than the resolution of my disagreement with Sherlock.

"I'll call us a cab then," he said before leaving the bar to head outside.

"John," I called out to his retreating back. He hesitated for just a moment to look back. "Thank you."

That customary smile curved his lips once more endearing him to me even further. "You're most welcome."

* * *

It was well after four o'clock in the morning by the time I made it back to 221B Baker Street. I half expected Sherlock to be asleep at such a late hour, so it was a pleasant surprise to find him waiting for me in the very spot I had spent most of the night. He didn't get up from the couch when I came in, just gestured for me to join him there.

"Why did you leave?" he asked with a disgruntled look once I was finally seated. I glanced down then to find three nicotine patches decorating his forearm.

"Why are you wearing those?" I said, ignoring his question in favor of my own.

Sherlock glanced down at the patches before he began to remove them. "I needed them to think."

"Did you figure it out? The problem you were thinking about, I mean."

Sherlock's look softened then as he stopped messing about with the patches to look me in the eye. "Yes, I did. My work's not more important to me than you, Molly. I never meant for you to think that. I don't think I can give it up, though. I need it – "

I reached out to take his hand, stopping the words. "I know, Sherlock. I don't want you to give up your work. I just want you to try to spend a bit more time with me than the microscope. That's all. I understand you need your work. I would never dream of asking you to give that up."

I received a frown at my assurance rather than the smile I had expected. "Why didn't you say something before now?"

"I don't know," I said with a helpless shrug. It was the truth. I had let the little bits of resentment build up over our time together, until it had all become too much for me to bear, resulting in an eruption of fury. "I suppose I just thought the feelings would go away if I didn't talk about them. Apparently, that wasn't the case."

"Well I would prefer if you didn't do it any more," Sherlock informed me with an impatient glance. "I'd rather not experience a night like this again. Besides, you look very unattractive when you're angry."

"So you'd rather I tell you whenever I'm upset about something?"

He did give me a pleased look at that. "Of course. Then I can explain to you why you're wrong and we can avoid another upsetting evening like this."

"Sherlock," I warned him with a look that hinted at another argument lurking in the very near future.

"Perhaps, I could try listening to you more, and remembering to spend more time together," he amended with hands raised in silent surrender. "I _am_ sorry about missing your birthday, Molly. Will you forgive me?"

I leaned over to press a soft kiss on his cheek at the sincere apology. "I've already forgiven you, Sherlock."

"I don't deserve you, Molly Hooper," he said then before moving his head to return the kiss, but I drew back for just a moment to give him a look of amused shock.

"Is that sentiment I hear, Mr. Holmes?"

"Of course not," he answered back. "Merely a statement of – "

"Of the facts," I finished with him, correctly predicting his choice of words. He briefly joined in my smile of delight before pulling me back in to finish our kiss.

"John told me the most fascinating thing about having fights," he murmured against my mouth between kisses.

"Hmmm?" My brain couldn't formulate a much better response than that with his arms locked around me as they currently were.

"Yes, apparently the best part is the making up. I am finding that I agree."

As he went on to demonstrate just how much he agreed, I found I felt quite the same.

* * *

The next morning, I awoke to find a little black box on my dressing side table with a note resting beneath. I looked over to find a still sleeping Sherlock by my side, and deduced that he must have placed the present there some time in the night. Reaching over to slide the folded note from beneath the box I undid the creases in the paper to read his words.

_Happy birthday, Molly Hooper. Perhaps this present can atone for my forgetfulness in some small way._

_- Sherlock_

After reading the message I noticed that two pieces of paper had fallen from the note into my lap, and I quickly reached down to retrieve them. Tears instantly sprung to my eyes when I saw what he had given me. Thankfully, these tears were of the more happy variety. Sherlock had given me two tickets to Paris. I sent his sleeping form an adoring glance before sliding the precious note and gift back onto the table. Just as I was turning away, I remembered the black box and reached out to open the lid, revealing a silver charm in the shape of a miniature present.

I snapped the lid shut with a happy grin, and turned over to slide my hands around his prone waist and press a soft kiss to his naked back.

"I love you," I whispered against his skin before closing my eyes to join him once more in sleep.

I had just begun drifting off before I caught the sound of his reply. "Glad you do."

* * *

_It always annoys me just a bit when I read Sherlolly stories where Sherlock magically undergoes some transformation when he falls in love with Molly. I think it's perfectly possible for him to maintain his personality while still making room in that life for Molly, so that belief was where this chapter sprung from. Thanks so much for reading it! Any reviews or comments will be as greatly appreciated as always._


	8. Marry Me

**Author's Note: **_Thanks for the reviews, follows, favorites! Please excuse my long delay between updates, but I have to work these little ficlets in between writing chapters for another story. This chapter takes place almost four months after Molly and Sherlock's big fight, and the consulting detective has been exhibiting some rather strange behavior. Well, stranger behavior than normal that is…_

* * *

I knew how ridiculous the thought sounded before the words even left my mouth, but I said them anyway. "Sherlock's been acting a bit odd lately."

The look Mary gave me across the table was the very expression I expected to receive after such a statement. "Are we discussing the same Sherlock who regularly stores various body parts around your kitchen?"

"He doesn't do that as much anymore," I rushed to defend him, though it wasn't really necessary. Sherlock didn't much care what others thought of his quirks.

"Well, thank goodness for that!" Mary exclaimed with a relieved expression. "I still haven't fully recovered from finding that ear in the microwave. If it's not about that, then what's the matter with him?"

"I just get the feeling lately that something's a bit off with him. But whenever I ask him about it, he promptly distracts me with a complete change of subject without answering the question," I said, chewing on my lower lip as I contemplated the odd situation.

Mary frowned at her bowl as she clinked the metal spoon on the ceramic edge to shake off the last bits of broth. Once the task was complete, she gave me a look that seemed more inquisitive than dubious. "You think he's hiding something? Sherlock Holmes is the last man I'd ever accuse of keeping his thoughts to himself."

"I wouldn't have thought him capable of keeping things hidden from me if not for the past several weeks," I asserted, placing my palms flat on the table as I leaned forward to help emphasize my point. "He just seems so distracted lately, forgetting things he normally remembers with no trouble at all. Yesterday, in fact, he was supposed to meet Detective Lestrade, but he never showed up at police headquarters. He's forgotten appointments before when he deemed them unimportant but certainly never regarding a case that could 'aide in exercising the complexities of his highly-advanced mind'," I quoted Sherlock's oft used words in connection with the cases he handled for the police. "When I asked him why he'd forgotten, he mumbled some intelligible response about research that I couldn't make out in the least. Then when I tried to ask him about it again, he acted as if he hadn't the faintest idea what I was talking about."

"Maybe he didn't," Mary quickly pointed out, her blonde brows pulled together tightly as she contemplated the situation I had laid out. "Doesn't he usually put 'trivialities' from his mind as soon as possible to make space for more vital information?"

I considered the thought for a moment before promptly discarding it. "Even Sherlock wouldn't consider the possibility of investigating serial killings to be trivial. But it's not just that," I continued without affording Mary the chance to interject again. "Today, instead of following up with Lestrade, he's made plans to cart me off to the Science Museum instead. He always waits until the end of a case to make special plans with me. Otherwise, things like that would be too much of a distraction from his work. When he told me last night about his plan to visit the museum, I couldn't speak for a full five minutes, until after the shock had worn off."

That voiced concern finally managed to elicit a jolt of surprise from my friend. "Why in the world is he taking you to a museum?"

"I honestly haven't any idea," I replied with a hapless shrug. "He mentioned something about it being important, but that was all he would say."

Normally I would be immensely pleased that Sherlock wanted to take time away from a case to spend it with me instead, but that decision coupled with other uncharacteristic behavior left me more puzzled than delighted. Mary took a breath to help me further analyze this odd predicament with my consulting detective, but our conversation was interrupted by the sound of the bell hanging over the door of the café jangling cheerfully to announce the arrival of two new visitors.

"Hello, girls," John called out, pausing just inside the door to shake off the rain from his black jacket. He turned back to glance behind him and waited for Sherlock to enter as well before letting the door swing shut behind him. Once safely inside the dry cafe, Sherlock ran his long fingers through his dark curls to dislodge several errant raindrops before following John to our table.

John pressed a kiss to Mary's cheek and sat down beside her on the small bench as Sherlock took the chair next to mine. "I left the umbrella at the flat," he explained his wet appearance.

"I see that," I murmured. "Didn't you notice it was going to rain?"

Sherlock shifted his gaze away from the menu to reward my question with an inscrutable look. "I had things on my mind other than precipitation."

He didn't bother to explain the comment and promptly went back to studying the menu, leaving me to turn my questioning gaze to his friend. "Serial murders and all that," John's explanation came out in a rush before he too found an immense interest in the café's sandwich options.

I sent Mary a silent look that said, _"I told you so."_

"It must be spreading," she answered back with a quick glance at her husband's evasive expression, managing to regain his wandering attention. Apparently, Mary did not feel the same need as I for wordless communication.

"What was that?" John asked.

Mary must have caught the sight of my hand waving in a subtle "cut-off" motion, because she answered back with a nonchalant wave of her hand. "Nothing, dear. Did you see they have very good soups here?"

I sent her a grateful smile for the change of subject. Whatever reason Sherlock had for his strange behavior, I wanted to discuss it in a more private setting, not here in the middle of a crowded café. With John amply distracted with talk of food, I looked back to Sherlock to find him staring at the menu with a blank look that indicated he had retreated back into that mind palace of his. Touching his hand with a gentle pressure, I saw the realization gradually dawn in his blue eyes that he wasn't alone before he glimpsed me still sitting next to him.

"What were you thinking about?" I questioned him, leaning in closer for my voice to carry to his ears amidst the noisy clatter surrounding us.

"You," he replied, his answer uttered at a slightly louder volume then my question. I might have been flattered if he hadn't looked so positively gloomy when saying it. When I didn't say anything in response, he dropped the menu with a bored sigh. "I'm not hungry either."

"Are you not in the mood to digest?" Mary had obviously been paying closer attention to our conversation than she had let on.

A faint trace of amusement managed to flicker beneath the cover of Sherlock's gloomy boredom. However, from the sadistic glint to the hidden humor, I suspected that his imminent reply would be rude in the extreme, so when he opened his mouth to respond, I quickly pushed back my chair and began grabbing for my coat. John and I had discovered over the past couple of years that it was best to head off Mary and Sherlock's verbal skirmishes as soon as possible. It wasn't that they didn't like each other. They just liked arguing better.

"Since Sherlock's not in the mood to lunch, I think we'll just be going," I said a bit louder than necessary, successfully preventing Sherlock from speaking. Mary looked a bit put out that I had put an end to their bickering before it had even begun, but she graciously conceded the loss with a wave goodbye.

"Good luck," John said as way of farewell, though the comment was directed mostly at Sherlock instead of the pair of us. I wasn't given much time to think about what he meant, as Sherlock quickly herded me from the table and through the throng of people till we reached the door of the café.

Sherlock pushed the door open and the sound of falling rain met my ears as we stepped into the damp outdoors. As I had forgotten an umbrella as well, I simply had to content myself with pulling the collar of my oversized raincoat over my head as I dashed into the rain after Sherlock who was already hailing a cab for our departure. I was immensely grateful when one of the cabs rolled to a stop and Sherlock opened the door for me to precede him inside. Once the door was shut, I was surprised to hear him give directions to the museum rather than for our flat on Baker Street.

"You still want to go to the museum in all this rain?" I asked with a slight shiver as the cool air of the cab swept across my wet skin.

"Of course," he said quickly, as if he had never contemplated any other alternative.

I rubbed my arms in an attempt to warm up as I continued to question him. "But why? We can go to the museum any day, and you still haven't met with Lestrade about his murders."

"There's always a murder," Sherlock dismissed my concerns with a snort of derision. "There will be many more murders tomorrow and the day after that, and I'm certain my acute perception will be just as helpful to the idiot detectives on those days as they would today."

"I don't think Detective Lestrade would appreciate being called an idiot," I informed Sherlock with a valiant attempt at a serious look, though the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth undermined the attempt.

Sherlock looked as if he hadn't the slightest clue why that would be considered offensive. "He's used to it by now, I'm sure," he excused the insult before sliding back on the upholstered seat and closing his eyes for the remainder of our journey along the crowded streets of London. Too used to the abrupt dismissals by now to be offended, I joined him by curling into his side and was greeted by the feel of a slender arm that wrapped around my shoulders to keep me close.

When we finally reached our destination, I was reluctant to leave my comfortable nook in Sherlock's arms but forced myself to move my stiffened limbs from the dry interior of the cab. Sherlock paid the driver and grabbed my hand not holding the coat over my head to pull me along behind him towards the entrance of the museum. Since the museum was a popular attraction to tourists, there was no fee to enter and we were indoors again in short order.

Despite the chill setting in from my damp clothes, I was able to ignore the discomfort long enough to eye the surrounding exhibits with respectful admiration. I had been here before on school trips as a girl when I was back at school, but the sights still didn't fail to inspire awe in my science-loving mind. I looked over at Sherlock to find him similarly affected by the surroundings. He often found things to mock in life, even went out of his way to mock them on occasion, but here in this vast tribute to the subject dearest to his heart and mind, I could see that criticisms and discontent were the furthest things from his mind.

He abandoned perusing the various exhibits long enough to glance at my face. "You see it too," he said with a fond smile before I realized what he meant.

"I'm a scientist," I reminded him with an equally warm look.

"You're a pathologist, but, yes, it's very similar," he corrected me before motioning me in front of him so we could take in the sights.

As we walked through different sections of the museum dedicated to such subjects as space, power, modern technology, and various other scientific advances, I began to wonder why he had brought me here. I was enjoying myself immensely of course, but that fact didn't erase my baffled state.

"You don't look happy," Sherlock's voice interrupted my inner musings.

I looked to him with a startled gaze. "I'm happy," I rushed to assure him, and that seemed to relax the rigid posture of his shoulders. "I'm just confused."

"It's not that difficult to understand, Molly," Sherlock explained patiently. "It's a steam engine. Very primitive and simple as a matter of fact."

My eyes darted to the display to his left and an amused laugh bubbled up to my lips. "Not that, Sherlock," I said once the laughter had subsided. "I meant I don't understand why you brought me here. It's lovely of course, and I very much appreciate the thought. I just don't understand why you would take time from a case that needs your help in order to spend it with me here."

"It had to be somewhere important," Sherlock said with a decisive nod, as if that comment should explain everything. Unfortunately, I was even more lost after that comment than I had been before.

"Important?"

"Yes," he answered, though disgruntled lines were beginning to mar the smooth skin of his brow. "John said it should be somewhere important. As you understand science and can appreciate it as much as myself, this seemed an appropriate place."

I was trying valiantly to keep up with his train of thought, but was failing miserably in the attempt. "I don't understand, Sherlock," I huffed, beginning to become irritated with myself for failing to understand.

"I love you," he answered then, taking me completely by surprise.

Any trace of irritation I had felt melted away completely at those treasured words. He had said them before, but not very often. It made the times when he did utter the words all the more precious to me.

He followed those unexpected words by reaching into his coat pocket to remove a familiar looking black box. I reached out automatically to receive the gift and it fit comfortably into my palm before he pulled his hand back to rest comfortably at his side. When I lifted the lid I expected to find a dainty charm as all the times before, but I nearly dropped the miniature package in shocked surprise when my eyes caught the sight of a platinum band sitting comfortably in the black velvet with a cluster of diamonds decorating the top, winking gaily at me in the bright lights.

"What…?" my brain tried and failed to form a question in the face of my utter astonishment.

"I want you to marry me," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. "Surely you can see that from the ring."

The frown was back now, as if he were doubting his actions in giving me a ring to announce his intentions. It was then that I realized the reason for all his odd behavior. Distracted from appointments with Lestrade, taking me to this museum in the middle of a rainy day during an important case. It had all been due to his proposal. "How long have you been planning this?" I asked him then, still holding the precious bounty in my hand in a tight-fisted embrace.

"I wanted to ask you weeks ago, but John insisted that I had to make it special," he answered, the frown still firmly in place as he recalled his friend's instructions. "He said I had to pick somewhere that was important to both of us before getting you here to ask the question. Of course, I didn't see the reason for all that, but he insisted it would be better this way. He's been driving me mad for weeks, pulling me away from cases to search all over London for the right ring."

"It's a lovely ring, Sherlock," I hastily assured him that his efforts had not been in vain, glancing back down at the ring with a tearful smile. "But why do you want to marry me?" I couldn't help but ask the question that had descended on my brain from the moment I first saw that ring.

"Because it would make you happy," he answered frankly, not even bothering to try to convince me that it was something he would have wanted himself. I knew Sherlock probably couldn't have cared less about marriage, but it touched me that he had asked simply because he thought it was something I would want.

"But will it make you happy?" I asked, slightly anxious at the thought of forcing him into something he didn't really desire or need.

The frown that had been smudging his expression, disappeared then at my query, replaced by the closest emotion to tenderness I had ever seen grace his features. "Yes, I believe it will."

"Aren't you supposed to get down on one knee?" I asked then, already having decided to agree to his proposal after that reply which had been so perfectly Sherlock.

The disgruntled look was back. "Why would I do that? I can see you much better from this vantage point."

Laughing loud enough to draw the stares of everyone surrounding us, I threw my arms around his shoulders and pulled him close in a fierce hug that expressed everything I had ever felt for him. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

I could feel him smile against my ear before he replied. "Does that mean 'yes'?"

"Yes, it means 'yes'," I gave him the answer he wanted before pulling back to give him a very thorough kiss.

Once we finished our kiss and the ring was snugly on my finger, Sherlock didn't even waste a moment before promptly pulling me along behind him again as we made our way through the crowd.

"Where are you going?" I asked him as we pushed through the throng of strangers.

He gave me an incredulous look at that as if he couldn't believe I would even feel the need to ask. "To headquarters," he answered quickly. "I've still time to get the particulars on that case so John and I can begin looking into it as soon as possible. The less time Lestrade's people have to muck things up the better."

He continued speaking, but the words were quickly swallowed up in the din surrounding us. Trailing along in his wake, I eyed the back of his curly head with amusement rather than the discontent most women might feel at having their proposal of marriage swiftly followed by a visit to police headquarters. _Well,_ I thought with a smile of giddy happiness, _most women aren't marrying Sherlock Holmes._ As I followed him out into the rain once again, I knew without a doubt that I was immensely grateful to be the one woman who was.

* * *

_Thank you very much for reading! The next chapter will be about Molly and Sherlock's big day, and there might even be some unexpected guests at said event. Any and all comments are much appreciated as always! Thanks again!_


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